Small Beginnings
by ajattra
Summary: Meredith's history with David spanning decades and several models. How many times can the cycle repeat itself before a new life will truly be born? Eventual David x Vickers. AU.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Since I've only seen the movie once, this will be somewhat AU-ish. Repeated viewings would be needed to portray the characters completely IC as well. But well, I really liked their on-screen chemistry and was intrigued by the twisted family dynamics of "the Weylands", so this came into being.

* * *

**I**

The first time Meredith meets a David she doesn't know what he is.

She is a girl of ten, sheltered and reserved. Loneliness is something she is used to, something she has learned to welcome. There are no other children at the estate, just her care keepers: tutors, cooks, cleaners, nannies, bodyguards. Meredith is given the finest education, her life follows the flow of a strict schedule, and she does not yet understand the contradictions of her life; why her father only comes to see her during rare occasions; why she is Meredith Vickers instead of Meredith Weyland; why all her efforts are like tears in the rain.

It is a Friday evening, the sun is setting to the West and most of the staff has retired for now. Meredith sits in her father's chair within his study, reading a book in secret as she is not permitted to indulge herself in fantasy during her study hour. Her short pixie hair is neat, but is starting to outgrow its cut and falls on her eyes when she leans in, chin nearly touching her chest. She stops reading whenever steps grow closer, and slowly slips out of the chair, hiding behind the wooden desk, but no one else dares to enter the study.

It is these desolate hours that she steals for herself that provide her happiness. Her hideout is her father's study, the only place she feels safe in this large house. She reads poetry, tales of chivalrous love in all its forms. Her heart resounds with eloquent words and universal truths, for she has never felt anything like it; the flame of love intrigues her, and she wants nothing more than to experience it one day.

Meredith is alerted though; she catches the sound of approaching steps and slips out of the chair silently, hidden beneath the desk in just seconds before the visitor already has their hand on the handle of the door. There is hardly any excitement in this game of hide and seek, as punishment is never severe, nor does it discourage her from further mischief; it merely teaches her to be more careful the next time. She watches from her hideout as a man enters the room, his steps quick and fluid. She's never seen anyone move like that, so smoothly, and Meredith tilts her head at this sight, frowning, her previous concerns forgotten suddenly as she becomes captivated by this visitor.

By now she can tell the visitor is male; he wears the same kind of clean, pressed trousers as her tutor does, although there is no trace of aftershave in the air, which she commonly connects to males. Piqued, she shifts the slightest to gain a better view. The man walks in without much regard, acting almost like he is wholly comfortable here, in her father's study that is off-limits to everyone, including her. He walks to the chairs by the liquor cabinet and the table, sitting down. He then glances at the chess board placed on the table, and within mere seconds he evaluates the situation, picking a piece then and executing a move. The piece makes a distinct sound when he places it on the chess board, and he sits back eyes upon the chessboard.

Meredith glances at the door, realizing he closed it after him. Why is this man here alone? Who is he and who let him in? She makes a small noise, barely audible to her own ears, but apparently enough for the mystery man to hear it and turn to her. As he turns he is no longer embraced by shadow, and she can finally see his face. He looks stoic but handsome. His clothes are clean, and his dark hair is tidy.

The stranger stares right at her, seeing the small girl beneath the table clearly now. But his expression does not waver, and his body language does not reveal anything about his reaction. He quite simply stares at her.

"Hello," he eventually says with a flat voice before extending his hand. "I am David."

Meredith climbs to her feet from her hiding place, straitening herself. She wears a cornflower blue wool dress. Her father hates it when she wears dresses around him, but her tutors and nannies don't mind them. She herself is quite fond of dresses as they're comfortable to wear and give lots of room for movement.

She approaches him mutely, struck by the way he holds out his hand without moving, those almost frightening eyes cast on her. When she reaches him, she takes his hand though, and gives it a determined squeeze. His hand feels cold and hard against hers, unlike her father's big soft hand.

"Meredith," she says, following his example of identifying herself by just her first name.

The stranger does not smile, but he shakes her hand formally and then places it back on his lap stiffly. She finds him pleasing to look at, even as there is something strange about him, something that does not quite fit.

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Meredith," he says, stealing a smile from her with his politeness. She is rarely held in such high regards, and it easy to please her with attention. He doesn't react to this though, simply observes her.

"Why are you here?" she asks him curiously, sitting across the table from him, blonde curls bouncing as she moves.

"I was invited," he explains, "To play chess."

And then, as if attempting to remain courteous he turns his eyes from the chessboard back to her small frame. "Do you play chess?"

Meredith shakes her head. "My father hasn't had the time to teach me yet," she shrugs, a sting of pain in her small voice.

"Your father is Peter Weyland," he informs her. "He is much too important to teach a child mundane things."

She frowns at this, feeling the stab of his statement in her chest. Like so many times before she is brushed away as unimportant, and not just by her father.

"I know," she simply responds. "He is a great man, or so they tell me. He will change the world one day," Meredith recites the same old excuses she's heard a million times, almost believing them by now.

"But if he has promised you that he will teach you," he then says, "then he will do so. He always keeps his promises."

To whom, she wonders, recalling many events where her hopes were crushed and the distant father remained nothing but a ghost despite his promises. Meredith nods languidly at this, feeling the desire to talk to this strange man dissipate by the minute.

"He has told me life is similar to chess; that by understanding its rules, we too will thrive."

Meredith watches as his focus shifts from her – an insignificant thing – to the game he so admires. Although his eyes betray no emotion, he moves to touch the chess pieces almost longingly.

"One day you will reach the end of your own chess board too. And you will change into a queen," he tells her cryptically, eyeing the Queen piece on his end. It is white and beautiful.

"You mean grow up," Meredith clarifies.

"That too," he responds.

It is then that she notices something she had not noticed before. He has a faint tattoo on his neck; it almost looks like a number. Meredith tilts her head to see it better, and as if picking up on her intent he turns his head to accommodate it. It is the number five.

"What is that?" she asks, anxious suddenly.

"That is my designation," he explains. "I am from the fifth generation of Davids, a prototype."

She blinks, not sure if she understands what he's saying.

"I am a synthetic human being, made by your father," he further informs her, turning back to her.

"Made by father?" she asks, tasting the odd words. "Does that make you my brother?"

"No," he responds without delay. "That would require for us to share genetic code. Alas we do not."

She remembers now, realizes why he looks so familiar. Meredith stands up and walks up to her father's desk, pulling open a drawer and taking out a picture from within. She then walks up to him and offers him the picture.

"You look just like him," she says absent-mindedly as the android looks at the picture of her mother and uncle.

The picture is faded, but the resemblance is quite eerie. Where she looks much like her mother, he looks almost like a doppelganger of her uncle. Meredith has looked at it many times in secret. Both her mother and uncle died in an accident sometime after her birth, and are nothing but pictures to her.

David looks at the picture, trying to process this, to understand. But he doesn't quite get there, cannot see what she is saying. Eventually he gives her the picture back, speechless for once.

Meredith takes the picture back, knows it would anger her father if he knew she'd shown it to anyone. Her father does not like talking about her mother and uncle, not even to her.

He stands up all of the sudden, standing with perfect posture as the handle turns. Meredith freezes still when she realizes someone else is coming in, but she acts quickly and hides behind the desk again. The android is not unfazed by this. And when her father enters the room, walking across it eagerly to apologize for his delay, David does not mention her presence.

"Ah, I see you've already started," Peter smiles to himself, eyeing the chess board with satisfaction.

There is further noise down the hall, which results in the loss of his good mood and he sighs a moment later, "Unfortunately it seems my daughter has gone missing. I trust you haven't seen her?"

The android does not pause. "I saw your daughter briefly. She's quite pleasant."

To this Peter simply scoffs, "She's young and reckless. Always causing trouble." There is deep displease in his voice. "It is because of her shortcomings that I have placed all my hope to you David. You will be my successor, my true heir."

Meredith listens in horror, eyes swelling with tears. She does not make a noise, however, simply sits where she is, numbness spreading across her body. She thinks of the heartless man sitting across her father being heralded notable in her stead. Her previous interest falters, morphing into irritation, intense dislike.

"Perhaps we should search for your daughter, Sir? She is, after all, only a child," David suggests, his voice the same, monotonic even in the light of such trust.

"Alright," Peter agrees and leads them both outside.

Meredith is left in the room alone, tears burning her throat, childhood illusions cruelly unmasked.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Many thanks to Maiafay for the feedback. It was extremely helpful, and I've made some adjustments accordingly. Also I did not discover the official timelines for the models etc. on the official Prometheus page until after I'd written the first draft of this, so the timelines will not adhere to the official ones. **  
**

* * *

**II**

Meredith sees him more often after that, and by then she knows very well what and who he is. David 5 does not acknowledge her much, although he remembers her. He is absorbed by the mission, the pursuit of perfection. Her attempts to excel at any given task are all clouded by his flawless achievements, her diplomas and awards are meaningless when compared to his advancements. She is more often compared to her father, the child prodigy, the Nobel Prize winner, yet comparisons to her father don't bother her as much as comparison to David does. She has seen the way Peter treats David from time to time, almost like he was family.

So why is he more important than she is? Why is David worthy of carrying on the legacy that should be her birthright? Isn't he interchangeable, just a collection of parts and wires that can only attempt to imitate the complexity of humans?

On the surface she is treated like any other entitled child with a distant father. Her heart's whims are granted, provided that she can explain them in a satisfactory manner, and she is given access to things most children can only dream of. Meredith doesn't dream of achieving greatness herself; she would be satisfied with a glance of approval from her father, just small words of pride.

She is sent to a private school, introduced to a larger world eventually. It is there that Meredith sheds her innocence and learns the art of defiance.

It is when Meredith turns sixteen that she meets model 5 for the last time.

He is observing the family photographs with great interest, hands held behind his back. She's wearing her private school uniform, leaning against the wall, wondering if he will leave in time or if he will continue to look at the pictures until she chases him away. Meredith has come to hate his smug voice, his clear blue eyes, and his gentlemanly behavior. But most of all, she has come to hate the way he always notes that she looks like her mother.

"I would like some privacy if that is alright with you," she raises her voice, and watches as he turns to her slowly.

If he were a man, she might consider him handsome, Meredith notes, whilst keeping her face stoic. She's learned by now that he doesn't feel anything. It hurts to know that someone so empty can hurt her so much simply by reciting misplaced thoughts.

"Miss Meredith," he greets her, his face still unmoved. She's grown accustomed to his expressionless face, knows it all too well.

"That was a polite way of me telling you to go fuck off," she announces, eyebrows knitting together. She's had a long month, and her father has yet again announced to her that her efforts are basically meaningless. She's also come to realize she is Meredith Vickers and he is Peter Weyland, and when she asked her father about it, he crudely told her how there is a very good reason for that.

"My apologies if I have offended you," David offers his apologies, and moves closer to her now.

She crinkles her nose in disgust, and walks past him when he tries to stop at a courteous distance, clearly attempting to initiate conversation. Instead Meredith walks to the liquor cabinet, opens it and pours herself some whiskey.

If private school has taught her anything, it is the lesson of how one pain can lessen another, and how there are many poisons to numb the pain altogether. One of her roommates graciously supplies her with what she needs, whenever she needs, but there is no greater pleasure than irritating her father by flaunting her vices at his face. It almost feels better than the poison she injects with the steady belief that it makes her days more bearable.

David watches intently as she pours the drink and drinks half of it with a single gulp. She can feel his stare. Her face is sullen, her blue eyes darker than usually, and her long blonde hair is sprawled across her shoulders like an untamed cloud.

"The resemblance has become almost uncanny," he says, moving closer again.

"_Stop_," she warns him, eyes burning with tears now, the insult sinking even deeper. "I don't want to hear it today, so just stop."

"It was not my intention to offend," he says.

"Of course, because it _never_ is," she nearly spits the words out and finishes her drink.

Then she swallows her hurt, and brushes her hair off her face, recalling the countless times she's heard someone say to her how valiant it is of her father to give her a different name. Peter wants her to become her own person, someone unburdened by his legacy, they tell her. On paper it sounds beautiful, a gift from a loving father to a sheltered daughter, one given with thought to her best interest only. Reality is far more gruesome though.

Meredith looks at him straight into the eye. "Now tell me if it's still a compliment after I tell you I'm the proof of my mother cheating on her husband."

He doesn't even blink. One could suffer the illusion that nothing was said, but she knows she said it aloud; she knows because it hurts so goddamn much.

Meredith doesn't have time to brace herself as he spreads his arms and hugs her, holding her a bit too tight and stiff, yet somewhat comfortingly.

"I am sorry, Meredith," he tells her, failing to capture emotion, yet sounding distinctly different than usual. It frightens her more that _he tries_ than that he doesn't succeed.

Meredith pulls away from him violently, hitting the bookshelves behind her as she jerks free. Her makeup is on her cheeks, horror is all over her, angry words want to rise, and yet she just stares at him, at this thing she hates. Her body feels hot and uncomfortable, the ghost of his touch remains on her skin like a brand she can't escape, but mostly she's caught in his hold, those empty eyes holding her prisoner.

"You don't feel _anything_!" she screams at him, grabbing the bottle she'd picked up earlier as he takes a step closer.

"You are upset. You need to calm down," he tells her, holding his hands up, as if believing it will calm her down.

She smashes the bottle at the side of his side when he takes another step, covering them both in sticky whiskey and shards of glass. The force breaks the bottle, but its neck remains intact, and her hand guides it onwards, cutting him. She feels the force slicing through the synthetic skin, stopping at something hard, and she gasps, releasing the weapon from her hands. Frighteningly the attack only leaves his ear hanging from a piece of synthetic skin, his mechanic interior exposed through-out the length of the cut.

His expression remains peaceful despite the violent act. In fact, nothing about his behavior is changed by her hostility. He looks at her almost sympathetically as the whiskey drips down the side of his face, wetting his uniform, mixing with the other fluids her attack has set loose: the thick, milky substance that serves as lubricant for the moving parts inside.

Horror expands on her face, and she rushes away, even as he tries to get hold of her fleeting figure. His fingertips brush against her, but he cannot reach her. Meredith runs past the doors towards her bedroom, her senses screaming at her, tremors pulsating through-out her body.

* * *

David is left standing in the room, watching her flee. He can sense the damage, the data implying a human would feel pain. He doesn't feel it, she's correct about that, but there is something else though: a feeling of wrongness at seeing her in pain. His senses remind him it is natural as such is the law; he cannot let any harm befall on a human being through action or inaction. But he has never felt it like this, over something emotional (insignificant as Peter Weyland would call it). It puzzles him.

He decides to run full diagnostics on his system to catch the possible error. Anomalies are uncommon, but easily fixed in most cases. Such is not the case with Miss Vickers though, for her irrational behavior often leads her into rejecting the perfectly acceptable social norms he bases his behavior in. He cannot adhere to the basic rules of conduct with her; she forces him to try new things, more unpredictable action. The results wary from disastrous to non-existent, yet he continues to try for her.

She has not smiled in his presence since their first meeting years ago, and he would find it preferable to the hostile way she engages him nowadays. She was, as he once explained to Peter, quite pleasant.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **I'm a bit behind on my update schedule, but now that my flu is dying, I should be able to update faster.

In response to _Touch Everything_, you should check AO3. There are a few excellent short stories where Vickers is the sub. This story is longish, and you won't be seeing that kind of development just yet, since David lacks experience and doesn't question his programming. But in the future their roles won't be so clear cut...

* * *

**III**

David 5 is suspended soon after. Her father tells her he will be replaced with the new model, a soon to be complete David 6. He goes on and on about the improvements, such as convincing expressions and tones, before moving onto berating his daughter for letting harm come to such a priceless possession, but Meredith isn't sorry. The argument heats up again, old wounds are reopened, and they do not speak for two years.

The next time Meredith sees him the years have passed by easily, and she's an adult now, or so she's been able to convince herself. It's her 18th birthday, and she agrees to have dinner with her father begrudgingly, as she is tempted by the chance of mending their relationship. She doesn't know if there's even anything to repair, but hope lingers, and she chooses to try. She prepares for the meeting meticulously, trying her best to put on a good appearance and behave more mature. The years apart have made her forget how trying it is to interact with her father.

He has reserved a table for them at a quiet restaurant, and Meredith shows up on time, dressed in her most expensive black dress. Her long blonde hair is a neat bun, her steely eyes accentuated by grey eye shadow, and everything about her is neat and tidy. Security confirms her identity at the door and then guides her inside courteously. It feels good to be recognized, to be considered noteworthy, she realizes, and for a moment there she has a good feeling about tonight; the confidence gained bleeds into the way she walks, the way she scans the room upon entering it.

But it isn't her father that greets her at the table. To Meredith's shock, it is another David.

This one looks a bit different. He is clad in an expensive suit instead that gaudy uniform for one. She can also tell his skin looks more real, that his outward appearance mimics that of a human much better. And his eyes aren't glazed; he actually feels present when he looks at her.

He stands up when she arrives to the table, a hopeful smile on his lips. At first Meredith is caught off-guard by it, left staring as the man – machine – moves behind her to pull out her chair and help her sit.

"Miss Meredith," he says, sounding pleased at her presence.

"David," she says, still a bit surprised at his presence. Then her eyes are already searching for her father. "Where is my father?"

"He was delayed, I'm afraid," he offers his explanation, making a small and uncomfortable pout. "He has requested that I accompany you until he arrives." And again he smiles, his expressions shifting from one clear-cut emotion to another.

Meredith studies his face, looking for signs of the injury she caused, recalling her father's aggravated voice from that night. Instead she catches the tattoo on his neck, and is left staring at it with surprise.

"We haven't had the pleasure of meeting before," he tells her, opening a bottle of wine from the table and pouring her some, "But I took the liberty of becoming acquainted with your tastes. I hope this evening will be pleasing."

It clicks in her brain, and for a small moment she feels something akin to sorrow. The expressionless man she had hated for years is gone, replaced by a cheerful doppelganger, one that is eager to please her. She doesn't know if she would've preferred the rude and straight-to-the-point David more after all. At least she knew him.

David 6 is looking at her expectantly now, waiting for her to speak. He seems so innocent in comparison, almost like a completely different being. Meredith feels the quiet pressure of what is expected upon her, her father's intentions working against her as well. She takes the wine he offers her, and looks into his gentle blue eyes.

"I'm sure it is satisfactory," she responds with little intonation.

"And we have met before," she then adds, almost melancholy, "But I suppose it wasn't something they wanted you to remember."

He frowns at this. "You must mean my predecessor," he notes. "We do not share memory and experience. Your father explains this is to weed out negative experiences, so we can prevent the failures of the past."

Meredith remembers arguing with her father about it; about the hug, David's attempts at consoling her. She'd thought it was vile and repulsive, whereas he believed the future of all androids depended on their ability to feel. How much more did this one feel?

"I see," she simply mumbles, bringing the glass to her lips and taking a sip. The wine helps her relax as the android beckons a waiter to them and places her order with suave charm. She can tell the routine is well practiced, and that the waiter suspects little. It is genuine interaction that he doesn't excel at.

The entertainers are playing popular music with violins and the piano. The tempo is sad, almost longing. It doesn't affect her company though. This David is enthusiastic, almost childlike in his desire to engage in conversation. She thinks he is quite annoying frankly, but holds back her growing irritation.

"Tell me about you," he requests, leaning over his elbows on the table, as if taking genuine interest in her. If he was a real boy, she might've considered this gesture somewhat adorable, but now it is just uncomfortable.

"I trust you have read my file inside out," she responds coldly, "There is little to add."

"Nonsense," he says with a hint of a smile. "There is always something that is not neatly folded in a file. Life is experiences, immeasurable by words."

He already sounds like her father, Meredith notes to herself.

"And what have you experienced? Am I wrong to guess this is your first time outside a lab?" she inquires, making him silent for awhile.

"I have been outside many times, even to your family estate. We conduct a lot of tests. I go among ordinary people to see if they can recognize me for what I am. Your father has been very generous in letting me outside," he explains, sounding almost impressed with her father. Meredith isn't surprised. It is how her father operates. He promises you the world, but ends up tiring of his toys quickly.

She has to wonder though, about these modern Turing tests David and her father have been conducting. It's become his mission in life, this artificial human that's indistinguishable from the real thing. The obsession becomes clearer and clearer as she grows up, but she's held out hope that it would dissolve, that he could wake up and see she's still here. She might not be what he wanted initially, but she's here regardless.

"The improvement in the results is remarkable when compared to the previous generation, or so I am told," David continues to explain enthusiastically, seemingly immersed in his own boasting.

"You're nothing but a slave," she cuts in to his surprise, spite sneaking into her voice, cruelty into her eyes. "Delude yourself all you can, but you're a thing, not human."

She can swear he reacts to her words with hurt, but the expression vanishes in seconds, replaced by something unreadable.

"I was told you might act rudely," David then informs her, sounding like a scolding older brother rather than a heartless machine. "After all, your relationship with my processor was troubled."

She lets that sink in for a moment, tasting that word – _troubled_ –, wondering what her father has told him about the previous model. For the first time in years she feels a pang of guilt concerning the way things went; how blinded of her own pain she was in her treatment of the android.

And then, to her great surprise, he places his hand on hers, seeking eye contact with an almost boyish smile, "But I forgive you for your prejudice, Meredith."

Meredith pulls her hand away quickly, flustered by contact.

"Never do that again," she says to him through pressed teeth, recalling all too vividly how the previous model also had illusions of the extent of their familiarity. And yet her skin burns at the contact, her heart beats quicker. She remembers feeling like that two years ago, embraced by a thing that should've not understood her pain, nor wanted to comfort her.

Her father makes his entrance at this point, a vital man at his late sixties, barely slowing down at all. Meredith watches his familiarity with David calmly as they greet one another, but she's caught surprised when he father places a filial kiss on her temple as he leans over. Flustered by the unusual behavior, she casts her eyes to the ground, but David watches them intently, noting that he does not receive a kiss.

Her father talks business most of the night, asking her if the changes are impressive, if this model feels superior already. His boasting includes impressive figures he has received through market research and testing. Only 7% of the test subjects could tell David apart from a human in brief encounters, her father tells her, undoubtedly expecting to see a bilious response from her to this information.

Meredith responds with little interest, violently stabbing vegetables on her plate instead. She used to have a softer skin for these comments, to his attempts in riling her up, but life has given her a thicker skin by necessity. Most of her focus lies with the android however. She can tell David is used to the praise; his face lights up in the face of compliments, he almost seems a bit smug in receiving them. But he is the favorite son. He can afford to be smug.

The hours wash away, yet her father does not tell treat her any different despite the years spent apart. He is still mostly concerned with himself and his business, and David listens to his every word as a disciple would. There is something about the way her father continues to converse though, something that catches Meredith's attention. It almost feels like he's stalling on purpose. And so anticipation begins to build in her with each hollow conversation, and she can tell he's holding back on purpose, engaging in useless chit chat instead. Ten years earlier she would've been overjoyed for this amount of attention, but alas, now she knows she's only receiving it for a yet unknown reason. He wants something from her.

"Father," she eventually stops him in the middle of his story, placing her hands on her lap whilst she calmly addresses him, "What do you want?"

Peter Weyland looks at her, his thick eyebrows seemingly frightening. He looks cruel, a little irritated perhaps, but the lines on his face soften a moment later. "You cannot take that college opportunity," he then tells her and dries his mouth in a napkin.

David is watching their exchange curiously, probably analyzing their behavior in his mechanic brain, recording and watching in an attempt to understand them. But he possibly can't, the dumb soulless thing he is.

Meredith takes in the words, doesn't allow the fire inside her to burst out of control. "That is my choice to make," she tells him.

"Not if you plan on living off my money," he then says, laying down the law. "Do you really think they want you for _your talents_?"

The crude remark hits its target; Meredith becomes visibly shaken, her insecurities exposed in that moment. "I don't need your help," she says to him, discarding the illusion of proper conduct.

"I'll arrange a comparable position with a more suitable college. You'll receive your monthly allowance as usual, and we will not discuss this further," he announces and stands up, signaling that this is truly the end of the conversation.

Meredith is too baffled to respond, too shattered by his earlier comment. Doubts cloud her mind, a shadow on her beautiful face. She looks devastated, her earlier resolution crumbled as if someone had picked off the wings of a butterfly, leaving behind a crippled creature.

David appears captivated by this sight, even to the point of forgetting to observe his surroundings for a moment, which is quite unusual.

Meredith then rises abruptly, fierce eyes cast on her father, and ill omens pressed on her lips. But she does not speak them, merely stares him down and then leaves. Her father doesn't call after her, or attempt to stop her. He watches her go, eyes void from emotion.

It is David who notices she left her purse on the table.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Thanks for all the new follows, reviews and favourites! I'm quite surprised there's this much interest in the pairing :)

_Touch Everything_, concerning Meredith's strength: So far she's been quite young in these chapters and unable to become independent. This will change as she matures, but at this point Peter is very much in charge of the show. Also I'm a bit skeptical about 'Strange Bedfellows' being the scene to make this pairing canon. Wouldn't object to it, but I'm not getting my hopes up, since the dvd is supposed to have more Vickers/Janek.

* * *

IV

Once safe within her apartment Meredith paces around, still in her expensive dress, seeking for ways to expel the hurt from her lungs. Why does her father always turn the smallest elation into the most cutting pain? Why does he rob her of all joy?

She leans over the sink, crying ugly tears with swollen lips, her cries reduced to loud whimpers that turn into violent growls. Unable to contain the emotions she keeps bottled up, Meredith cries and breaths in and out in a pathetic attempt to calm herself. The anxiety is overwhelming, all-encompassing, and she can't breathe, can't push the dread away.

She tears her hair free from the restrictive hair do, tossing the clip that held it still in the sink as she continues crying. Meredith is shaking now, almost undone by her anxiety. She fumbles into the bathroom, opens the door to her stash, the going-away gift of her former roommate. And when she forces the pills down her throat, just swallowing them gives her a sense of false serenity. She falls on the floor, leaning against the bathtub, listening as her breathing becomes normal again. The tears take longer to dry.

She remains like this for awhile: back against the bathtub, legs bent, face greeting the light above. The medical numb is starting to kick in, to remove this anxiety. She embraces this feeling; it is her sanctuary, her privilege.

Meredith doesn't think about the many glasses of wine she enjoyed on their _family meal_, or the sensation in her gut that tells her she may have taken too many pills in her eagerness to experience a comfortable numb; instead she takes a few more pills, swallowing them down like candy, sated with the knowledge that soon this heavy cloud will fade and she'll feel much, much better. Hasn't she already done anything for survival? Hasn't she been in this situation so many times?

The calm spreads across her body like a fever. The ties that held her down are cut, she is free. She can float here, just enough to stay above the surface when others would push her down. Meredith leans forward, pulls open the zipper of her dress and steps up to wriggle herself out of it. The dress falls at her feet, her slim figure protected only by her underwear now. She draws herself a warm bath, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, looking down at the water, needing its safety.

Once she is done, she removes the rest of her clothing and steps into the water. It is so comfortable here, she finds herself thinking. Exhaustion sneaks upon her, dried tears on her cheeks feel more and more distant by the minute, and she closes her eyes, slips into oblivion.

* * *

He steps inside, and the door creaks softly when he closes it. It is much too easy to gain entrance to her apartment, he realizes, and contemplates mentioning it to her upon finding her. David holds her purse in his hands like it is something invaluable. Peter deemed this impulse to return it foolish and chivalrous, but chose to entertain David's wish and allowed him to go to Meredith.

She did not answer the phone, or respond to his call when he hollered for her and knocked on the front door. David calls for her again, softly and warily. He remembers her timid face, how flustered with shame she was as she left, and believes this might make her desire solitude for now. David knows that all these details factor into his decision to come here, to ignore the proper thing to do just to get another glimpse at her.

He steps further into her apartment, each detail of the décor met with scrutiny. He sees the paintings, reads the names of the books, and advances into her living room. David has been protected from extreme human emotion, much like a child has been sheltered from unwanted influences, and yet having seen her like that, so visibly torn, he finds himself intrigued by her and the power Peter has over her. It is not unlike the power Peter holds over David. Alas, Meredith would not appreciate these notions of them being similar, seeing how little she thinks of David.

David walks further in quietly, and then, as if sensing it already, his pace quickens, and he reaches the bathroom door. He opens it, finding her in the tub, seemingly lifeless before his eyes. He doesn't hesitate when he lets go of the purse and moves to her side. David extends two fingers, placing them on her neck, sensing a weakening pulse. There is a moment of emptiness, the enigma he had sought to solve slipping from his reach.

Then there is a small feeling of unease inside him within seconds, the fault of failing his basic programming strengthening into a firm emotion.

David works the controls to drain the bathtub from water, and it begins to empty immediately. He reaches for the detergent on the sink, mixes it with water in a cup and then moves back to her side, lifting her naked body from the water, his arm wrapped around her as he places the cup on her lips and forces her to drink. At first there is no effect, but then she begins to writhe, to squirm, and he needs to steady her with both arms to keep her still.

The water is already at the depth of her ankles when she throws up, emptying her stomach as intended. He can tell she is in pain, for her weak hands reach to stroke her throat as she cackles and she struggles to swallow in spite of it.

David holds her still, the sleeves of his shirt wet from the water, clinging to his synthetic skin. He does not feel urgency; he is like a solid rock in the eye of the storm while she thrashes.

At first Meredith doesn't even register it's him.

Silence surrounds them, wraps them in its hold. When nothing comes out anymore, she leans backwards, weak in the aftermath, barely holding together. David holds her with both arms now, her head pressed to his chest. His sensors indicate that her heartbeat is settling down, and she appears comfortable in her current position for now. Her drowsy eyes flutter a bit, and she's still caught in a haze, clearly unable to process everything that goes on around them.

"Relax," he tells her with a sobering voice, "You are alright now."

He feels her tense at this, gain a sense of place again. David releases her slowly as she begins to struggle, realizing only now that she is naked in his hold, bare unlike ever before. Her eyes are upon him quickly as she retreats, shaking with humiliation and anger. David only looks at her with more questions.

"I came to return your purse," he informs her casually. "And found you like this."

Shame is all over her, even if he isn't its source. She struggles to clear her throat, dispel the hurt that is lodged within it. Her attempt doesn't appear too successful.

"I will call for help now," he informs her, but she grabs his arm violently, desperate eyes pouring into his. Her grip would injure a human, but he can only register the pressure her fingers create as they press against his skin.

"No," she begs with her distorted voice, looking straight at him, her eyes wide.

He obeys, how could he not? She has been given command over him, the power to make him obey even the most difficult commands. But she does not command him, she _begs_, as if he could refuse her. At this, he cannot but help express puzzlement.

"Would it not be beneficial for your health?" he asks, still in her grip, eyes locked with hers. There is no doubt in his voice though; he knows it would be more beneficial, that he is right in suggesting this. David is certain of it, but he cannot act against her wishes unless they bring express harm to her.

"No one can know," she whispers at him, her grip faltering, eyes falling from his figure onto the floor. She's struggling to remain in control, aloof despite of the pain and humiliation. He doesn't leave her side though, remains at the exact spot where she stopped him.

And then she looks at him again with renewed faith. "Promise you won't tell."

"I will obey your command, Meredith," he says as if it is the simple truth that holds the universe together.

He senses her hand falling from his arm as she gives up fighting him and he takes hold of it gently, before placing it on the edge of the tub and taking a towel from a pile of them nearby with his spare hand. Then he opens the towel, motioning her to rise from the bathtub.

Her miserable eyes evaluate this, but she stands up anyway, lets him wrap her inside the towel and walk her from the bathroom. She appears dizzy, slightly disconnected from this moment. David helps her walk though, one arm steadying her while she moves onward with a hunch. The moment is definitely odd. He has never had to be there like this for another person, to care for them.

But the emotion is about something else as well, not just the act of nursing and caring. It is about control. Earlier she was in control. She talked down on him and determined the pace of their interactions. Now he guides her, tells her what to do. Seeing her like this is unexpected, but he rather likes this, being in control, as he rarely is anywhere else.

David makes her sit down and kneels before her, examining her eyes with his, studying her pupils. He touches her neck again to feel her pulse. Every touch is clinical; he treats her like anyone else, and yet Meredith looks unnerved by his touch. Her shifty eyes avoid his, and she holds the towel around her like a lifeline.

He doesn't ask her why, or offer her advice. He simply remains where he is for awhile, evaluating the situation.

"You require someone to watch over you. Do you have someone you can call?"

She shakes her head.

"Then I will stay."

She nods at this, holding the towel in place firmly, head turned from him. She's turned her gaze from him like a sulking child, he notes. He has observed humans for countless hours, seen their behavior in all sorts of situations in order to mimic it better, to understand it. He does not understand her though.

She appears a bit groggy again, clearly desires sleep, but sobers from this when he touches her chin, claiming her attention in an instant.

"I will observe your condition. Please feel safe in my care, Meredith," he says to reassure her.

She doesn't say anything. Her pulse is high, blood rushes across her body with haste, and he is certain that his kindness is something she never expected.

Once she is capable of walking again, he helps her to the bedroom. There is a silent truce between them, Meredith follows his command without objections, and it pleases him for he had expected resistance. But when he tucks her into bed, leaning over her recumbent figure as she stills, he places a kiss on her forehead, just as her father did.

He has seen it done many times, such expressions of affection, but has never engaged in anything of the kind himself, so for him the experience is nouveau, as Peter would say. His movement does not betray the hesitation that lasts whole seconds before he presses his lips on her skin, puckering them a bit, suddenly tasting her, feeling the way she presses into him almost subconsciously.

Did he just kiss her wrong? Peter's kiss was quicker, lighter, yet his took more time, his lips did not just graze her skin.

David retreats from her next, nostrils quavering from her smell, lips remembering her feel, his senses profoundly focused on her. Meredith doesn't react to the kiss visibly, just as she did not react to her father's. He expects her to comment for awhile, but when she does not, he retreats to a chair in her bedroom, sitting down as she sinks further into the bed, dead silent.

His good intentions, that not-quite filial kiss, hang in the air for awhile, accompanied by ghastly silence. David doesn't know if she thinks about it, but he does. It troubles him. He cannot say what compelled him to act that way, or why it feels important.

So he watches her as promised, and in order to distract himself he picks up a book from her bookshelf. David still occasionally glances at the sleeping form on the bed after she falls asleep, yet he becomes focused on his reading as well.

The book on his hands is an unexpected experience, something he hasn't come across at Weyland's private library before. It is _La Vita Nuova_ by Dante Alighieri, a curious choice for a woman such as her. The book details the development of Dante's courtly love for a woman called Beatrice through narrative that connects his poems about love.

David reads about captive hearts until dawn, unable to grasp the obsession of a man who had only met the object of his affection once before he fell in love. He reads the poems the poet writes of his heart's desire, this flawless woman, whose every action was executed with utmost grace.

He guards her sleep, and takes the book with him in the morning with the solid intention of returning it one day when he has grasped its meaning. He never gets the chance to return it.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Back again. Glad you're all enjoying this so far!

_Touch Everything - _You should start a community yourself if you want one. Sadly I don't have the time to maintain one at the moment. I would love to see this pairing more :)

* * *

V

Meredith only sees number 6 in passing after that. He is always polite to her, never asks about that night. It is easier for her to pretend it never happened; that she did not share something _intimate_ with him, a creation that cannot feel. She hardens herself, knowing she cannot afford the luxury of viewing him as humane. She knows he pretends to feel and isn't fooled by expressions or by clever words.

And yet she cannot fully bury these details either; they haunt her during quiet nights, prompt her when she has no work to distract her.

Of course her father wins. She submits to his wishes, enrolls in the college he finds _suitable_, and tries to forget. But his power over her is almost ubiquitous. Her insides crumble and she comes undone whenever he chooses to interfere, whenever he waltzes in to redirect her life. But in the middle of these storms she remembers how easy it was to rely on something to make things easier, how deceptive that kind of an addiction was, and how the only person to care enough was an android. She overcomes her own anxiety almost out of spite, refusing to be compromised like that again.

Instead she focuses her energy in her studies and excels. As long as her scores remain respectable and she moves in the right circles, all she hears from her father is the occasional seasonal greeting card or succinct e-mail. This suits Meredith well. It's easier to keep her together when she doesn't have to face him, when she can pretend he's the kind of father who's proud of her accomplishments. She does this all the time in front of strangers, referencing a man that does not exist. As sad as it is, a lie is easier for her to live with than the truth.

It is after her second college year abroad that she returns to the only home she's ever known, invited to the manor by her father with the assurance that he won't be able to meet her during her stay. She doesn't know if it's fatigue or insolence that makes her accept the invitation, but she lets his private plane fly her home, back into the lifeless mansion she grew up in. Most of the staff is off-duty, but the butler arrives to greet her and a few maids are called in to handle her needs. Meredith doesn't dispense her attention much, simply acknowledges their efforts and retires.

The mansion is almost lifeless in the morning, but the quiet doesn't bother her. In fact, she quite enjoys it, recalling how much noise there was in this house in her restless youth. Meredith walks down the halls where each room is filled with memories, faded history. The few servants that have been called to work greet her, most of them unfamiliar faces, and she moves into the inner courtyard to enjoy her breakfast in peace.

To her surprise it is the only place in the house that seems different somehow, almost like it is _loved_ and cared for.

At first she simply sits at the garden table, reading this morning's news on her tablet, enjoying the morning sun and the fresh orange juice. But little by little the details become more interesting; how there are blooming roses in this previously unattended garden, how the space she remembers for the suffocating vines, the walls overrun by creeper, is now more alive than it ever was. The smell of roses is stunning, and she inhales it longingly, wondering if her father has hired a new gardener.

Meredith is deep in thought when he first appears. He manages to walk right up to her, startling her when he finally address her.

"Miss Meredith. What a pleasant surprise," David greets her, sounding genuinely pleased.

She jerks a bit up at the sound of his gentle voice, mind haunted by the event that changed everything almost three years ago. Her heart races as she stands there, piercing eyes confronting his calmness. Despite being fully clothed, older and wiser, she can't help feel bare in his presence again, defenses hopelessly pierced.

David 6 is the same he was previously. He wears a light blue uniform that compliments his physique. His hair is dark and well-groomed. Every action seems fluid and well-coordinated, reminding her of the movement of a dancer rather than a machine. For a second there she considers this, wondering if he's actually had dancing lessons to make his movements less obvious. Of course the end result is less human and more inhuman, unique and odd.

As if sensing he is troubling her, David raises an eyebrow and tilts his head slightly. "My apologies for arriving unannounced. I was not informed of your presence," he says, placing a hand over his chest apologetically.

It's only now that she notices the small kit he is carrying with him. The pieces fall in place quickly, and Meredith regains some of her usual composure.

"This... is you," she deducts, glancing at the beauty around her, the unmatched bloom of the rose garden. Anger flares within her. Why is her father allowing _him_ to do this? What kind of a sick game is this, letting him tend to living things?

David smiles as if her words were a compliment, and his smile appears a tad more natural. "Yes. Your father thought it important for my development to be given this responsibility. To find something that would grow here, and take care of it," he explains as his eyes wander across the flowers.

"Flowers cannot speak to express their needs. One must listen to them carefully nevertheless."

Meredith picks up her posture before sitting down again.

"I shouldn't keep you then," she says, glad that she can be rid of him so easily. The last thing she wants is to reminiscence the past with him. Generally her moments of weakness – especially those caused by her father – have no witnesses, but the last time he became one.

She casts her eyes on the tablet she holds, hoping that the news can distract her from his presence for awhile. It has worked previously. All the times she saw him after the incident slipped by without many words, and she was able to slip away relatively easily. But to her annoyance he does not leave her be this time; instead he sits at the table across her, keen eyes upon her, that polite exterior unreadable.

"Do you like it?" he asks her, probably fishing for compliments.

His sincere eyes feel real though; he feels real in his quest to receive acceptance. Meredith feels something move inside her, something loose and soft that she needs to tether quickly. She brushes her blonde hair from her face and reaches for her juice, trying to hide her nervousness as she drinks.

"It's very nice," she then responds, uttering a plain and empty compliment. She's mastered that talent, speaking these bland words as if they mean something.

He sits stiffly in the chair across the table, face stoic, hands pressed over the surface of the kit that rests on his lap. His attention seems pointed at her wholly, something she can't say for most. And she's reminded of how she saw an old man, one wearied by experience, in his place when he saved her, not the child she'd seen until then. She's reminded of the kiss he pressed on her lips; how it was anything but brotherly, and yet, how it made her feel loved – something her father never succeeded in.

"I was told you were abroad. How did you enjoy your studies there?" David continues to inquire, shifting to another topic fluidly. His conversational skills seem to have improved as well. Meredith can't seem to stop comparing though; she can't keep herself from thinking where he might be now if he'd retained his old memories, if he remembered what happened back then.

"It was alright. I suppose you could say humbling," Meredith responds, unwilling to delve further into the experience. He waits for her to elaborate, and when he realizes she won't, Meredith has already pointed her attention back to the tablet in hopes that he will simply give up and leave her alone.

"I have been reading the book I borrowed from you," David then says, gaining her undivided attention in an instant. Her eyes find him again, and there's a clear reaction when sees how this information affects her. She can't quite name it, but it's there, a sort of complacency.

"Dante," she says, her voice reduced to a whisper. She begs silently for him not to go there, not to force her to relive it.

"Yes," he responds briefly. "It is quite beautiful."

It is one of her favorite books, this proof of the existence of selfless love. When the android stole it from her bookshelf, she didn't ask it back, or even mention it. Meredith simply bought herself a new copy and sought to forget all about the experience. Yet the image of him by her bed, reading that book, so deep in thought, the shadows almost making it seem like his forehead was furrowed as he tried to understand what he was reading, remains trapped in her memory.

She waits for him to say something, to reveal his cards. Clearly it's a gambit, something to flaunt at her face, to make her see her place.

"By all means, hold onto it," Meredith then says. "I've already purchased a new copy."

"I did not mean to inconvenience you," he hurries to say, appearing uncomfortable with the notion that she had to replace the book he took.

She raises her hand to assure him, but her expression remains minimal. "It is alright David. You're not in any trouble."

"I have not spoken about it," he then reveals, his words like blades cutting into her. "As you asked."

Meredith stands abruptly, strides right up to him, hand grasping the arm of his chair.

"And you won't," she tells him harshly, almost frightening intensity in her eyes. It doesn't seem to do anything to him though; he simply stares at her, remaining in the same stiff position with the exception of his head that's turned to her.

Is he insulted with her words: with the implication that he could break his vow? Somehow that in itself unnerves her a bit. And she recognizes only now that she's standing quite close to him. In fact, if he were human, she'd be way within his personal space.

David looks up at her, face betraying nothing as usual. His expressions are simply emotive. He uses them to convey responses, and they last for mere seconds before his face returns to this expressionless state. With her, it's like he doesn't even bother to hide this, to act his way through these situations. Is it because she knows what he is?

Yet she leans further into his personal space, her face now mere inches away from his. "I'm grateful for your help," she tells him, forcing the words out. "But I won't hesitate to end you if you betray my trust."

He doesn't shift, just continues that unnerving staring, unmoved. "I said I wouldn't," he affirms.

David moves then, standing up, forcing her to back away to keep distance. A part of her just wants to pin him down to see an honest-to-God reaction, which is insane, because he doesn't have them. It's all programming, things they've put in his brain, pre-set notions of how to behave. Meredith remains by him even as he stands up, placing his kit on the desk and towering next to her, as cool and collected as before.

"I only want what is in your best interest," he tells her, only to get debunked in an instant.

"You don't _want_ anything," she hisses at him viciously. "You don't even know the meaning of the word."

Again she feels like the raging sea crashing against a boulder of rock. No matter how much she rages on, he remains unharmed, unchanging. It is so futile to hate him, to feel anything for him, but she does it anyway. And she thinks he sees this quite clearly. He engaged her in this conversation, did he not? He cared for her once, even the point where she believed he was acting beyond his programming, as crazy as that is.

David doesn't answer. If he is perplexed, he does not show it. Meredith would give anything for that kind of strength, such self-control. It is another reason she envies him.

She holds down the insults that have been building inside her for over a decade now. It's all a mess, jumbled in her brain. She didn't hate this one, and he doesn't know what she knows, and she shouldn't blame him. But they are so similar these two, almost the same. They seem to care what happens to her when no one else does.

"I don't want to talk about this again, is that clear?" she tells him instead, eyes made of steel, feeble body strengthened by resolve. It's always about control, and he's about the only thing she can control.

He acknowledges her words with a nod. "I was simply curious," he states, appearing almost childish again.

"Curiosity can get you killed."

To her surprise he smiles at this, treating her response like it was meant for amusement. "But I am not a cat," he says lightly, immersed in their interaction.

He's enjoying this, she realizes to her horror, and pulls away, unable to understand this machine in her garden. It becomes more and more advanced, evolves into a bigger mystery every time she sees it. And now it brushes off her comments like that.

"There is nothing to be curious about. It was an accident. No one needs to know about it," she recounts the mantra that she's been telling herself. It wasn't a suicide attempt. It wasn't a cry for help. He wasn't there by some divine providence to save her.

David appears thoughtful, as if sensing the lie in her words. He doesn't contradict them nevertheless, so at least that's something. Meredith grabs her tablet and finishes her drink, her back turned to the android in hopes of conveying the fact that the conversation is over. He remains still, probably analyzing the events that just took place. He doesn't reach for his kit or move on.

Then, just as she's about to breathe easily again, he speaks to her.

"It is good to see you well, Meredith."

She doesn't look at him, but she can see the expression on his face and hear that childlike adorn in his voice. Her heart clenches.

"Can't say the same about you," she responds before taking off.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**VI**

David 6 is replaced in time, the book he took from her lost in the shelves of the complex where they keep him. They box him, hiding away the proof of a time when Meredith Vickers last allowed someone to help her. A new David rises from the ashes of the old, but this one remains her father's final success, or so she believes as Peter Weyland becomes bed bound, his health quickly deteriorating.

Meredith has gained a position in the company, a small job that serves as a bouncing stone to greater things if her father is to be believed. She's a little overqualified, but the work keeps her sane. She often glances at other positions on the market, especially those at Yutani, flirting with the idea of becoming independent at last, working for her father's rivals. These mere fantasies though, fuelled by her need to break her father's hold on her. Something keeps her from leaving, and she stays at Weyland Industries to climb their ranks.

In a few years time she's already well-established, and her success is her own doing, or so she believes. Meredith doesn't believe in her father's need to advance her career from the bottom of a hospital bed. Surely he has more important things to do than worry about his legal successor, the daughter he has hated for years? Yet doubt lingers in her mind. She can almost hear his voice when she's alone, telling her,

_Do you really think they want you for your talents?_

Eventually her father's condition worsens, whereas Meredith moves towards greater things. She can feel his grip loosen, this sudden rush of fresh air. Her anxieties diminish, and for awhile she feels like she can do anything.

The news travels fast, but Meredith does not hurry to the side of her father's sickbed, knowing very well she will find his true son there, expressing his empty condolences. Meredith drowns herself in work instead, withstanding speculation after her lineage has become somewhat of a public secret in the past few years. Her superior would give her time off on account of her father's worsening condition, but she doesn't accept it, chooses to bury the guilt and worry instead.

It is only when her father summons her to his bedside that she cannot delay another encounter anymore.

Her father looks old and weary when she sees him, ravaged by disease, a cancer so vicious that conventional treatment isn't working. Meredith knows she should feel bad for him – he is the only father she has ever known, whether she wants him to be or not – and yet the sight of him broken before her, hairless and pale, is rewarding. She sits into a chair by his bed, blue eyes unreachable, distant.

Eight years have passed since her 18th birthday, since he beguiled her into servitude and set her on the path to becoming a force to be reckoned with within the company he governs. She hasn't heard him praise her talent yet or acknowledge her achievements. By now Meredith has accepted that she probably never will.

He begins to threaten her before she can even open her mouth to greet him. In a way Meredith is glad they past the tedious pretense and can finally speak as two adults.

"Listen to me Meredith, and listen well. I need you to do something for me," Peter Weyland speaks with a ruthless voice that does not fit into his frail old body. Meredith scans him, and finds him _diminished_ in his current state: bound to this bed, hooked onto machines, his consciousness undoubtedly dimmed by all sorts of medicine. She finds him utterly small.

"He needs human contact beyond being prodded by scientists," her father tells her, moves on to convincing her to let the newest model live with her. Words cannot express how much she is repulsed by this thought.

"No," she simply states, making it absolutely clear how she is not a young girl anymore. He cannot manipulate her now.

"He is my legacy, a true marvel of science. You need to help them finish him, make him real," he explains, trying to highlight the fleeting authority in his voice. All she sees is a feeble and sick man.

"Have one of your scientists babysit your robot," she answers with cruelty, leaning back I her chair, finally feeling in control. The feeling is intoxicating.

"No, no," he shakes his head. "He needs genuine interaction, and they would not treat him like one of us."

For a moment she's speechless. Then her bafflement is traded with laughter. "And I would?" she asks with mockery, caught in disbelief.

"You always have," her father simply says, getting her to think about it. Meredith considers his words, about the Davids she has known.

"You were jealous, even as a child. Your presence was a conflict, always. They learned much from that."

For a moment she simply listens to him, finding his twisted nature even more appalling than previously. She realizes the truth now; how he has used her for years, to test, to induce reality into a simulated environment. Her expression is unreadable; the insult nearly turns her blood into fire.

"I'm not playing your games anymore," she whispers with contempt.

"I will put you in charge of my affairs until I get better," he then offers, eyes narrowing at the signs of her interest. "Isn't that what you want: Power?"

Temptation gains hold of her, this chance at proving herself. She cannot prevent the hurt from fueling her vicious commentary though, "Until you get _better_, father?"

"Trust me, I will rise again. It is only a matter of time," he then tells her, motioning her attention to the papers that lie on the night table by his side. Her eyes follow his hand there and she reaches for them, reading through the legal documents with care.

"All this," she gasps in disbelief, "just for me to spend time with your robot?"

He nods, seemingly sincere for once. She knows she could cripple him now; that she could just walk away and crush his dreams like he had crushed hers so many times. Yet she holds the papers, her leverage, her chance, and is unable to put them away. She has come to yearn for his company, all of his possessions, even his title, just to show him that she is worthy of it all. He probably anticipated this fully, she realizes bitterly.

"Does he remember anything?" Meredith asks coldly. She cannot bear being in the same room with _him_, the one who's so caring and tries so hard to resonate with her. But if he's become someone else, someone new, then maybe she can do it.

Peter's mouth is drawn into a skewed line as he contemplates these words, clearly trying to understand why it would matter to her. Eventually he answers her, "No. This is a newer model. We purged number 6 like we did to all the others before him."

Meredith likes this answer: Another tabula rasa. Her previous weakness wiped blank from his mind, a new more obedient model. And what does she need to do with it? Talk? She skims through the papers again, searching for something, anything, out of the ordinary.

"You'd get the penthouse at R&D," Peter says, his voice almost seductive. She knows it is a coveted position, to be in charge of his affairs, to live in that apartment.

"So I can visit your pet easily?" she mumbles at him, eyes still keen on the contract. She wouldn't trust him without a written contract though, not for anything.

"He would spend the evenings with you, learning."

Meredith fights the urge to roll her eyes at him. "Learning what? Gardening?" she asks, recalling the roses at her father's mansion. They are probably withered by now, with the new model having taken the place of the old one. The prototypes change, launch their lines upon completion, and then her father takes a new one in, holding it dear until the expiration date arrives. She wonders if they smile even as they are deactivated, if they feel regret or fear?

"All sorts of things. They are programmed for keeping company, for mundane tasks," Peter lists a couple of things ranging from cooking to cleaning, before he adds almost quizzically, "This one likes to watch movies."

Meredith actually raises a brow at this. Her beige dress suddenly feels a bit tight, her skin dry. "Likes?"

She imagines them together, playing chess, doing things a father might do with his child, things he never did with her. Jealousy stings, but she reins in the feeling. She did all those things herself: taught, entertained, and rewarded herself. No one did that for her.

"We're getting closer now, Meredith." Peter's voice is raspy, pleased. She can see unlimited opportunities in his eyes: a thirst for knowledge, an unquenched hunger for life.

She stares at her hands now, at the papers she's holding. Walking away feels like a distant option now. Peter would give her everything he'd denied previously just so that she looks after his true progeny. How poetic…

"Fine then." Her acquiescent comes a moment later; it relights the fire in his eyes.

"I will do this for you," Meredith promises, knowing this might be a mistake. She might condemn herself to more suffering, but at the same time she is curious somewhere deep inside. Can you truly clean a slate or will something always remain: an echo of what once was?

Peter doesn't thank her, and quite frankly she did not expect him to. This is quid pro quo. They are making a trade of equal value. He is willing to part with his precious company in order to ensure the safety of his legacy. It is temporary in his mind, although she wonders whether he can actually recover from this.

Then she can feel his frail hand over hers. It feels light and rugged against her smooth skin. Peter's eyes are demanding, and even though she knows they are not family by blood she has that same intensity in hers. They might not like one another, or trust one another, but they understand each other by now.

"I'll have them make the arrangements," Peter notes.

Meredith simply pulls from his reach, standing up with the papers in her hands. "I'll study these overnight, and have my attorney return them to you."

Unexpectedly, she's filled with elation as she walks away. It is almost like she has won against him for the first time.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone for the new review, follows & favourites! I hope you've all had a chance to see the new leaked deleted scenes. I especially enjoyed the one where Vickers muses about Janek and Shaw _trying to infect her ship_ and calls David _a tin can_ ;) Not to mention the cut scene that brings more ambiquity to her relationship with Weyland. It does seem that Vickers admired him once upon a time after all...

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VII

David 7 is the most advanced artificial human to date. He has succeeded in amazing his creators many times by now, especially when they reached the hypothesis that he was the first of his kind to develop a personality. To him the testing that followed was quite tedious. He was made to choose between things several times in succession, and each time he needed to justify his choice. It was Peter Weyland that convinced them this sign of individuality was a good thing. Humans are fickle and scared. David knows they are not all as open-minded as his master is.

But Peter's time has all but gone. His expiry closes in and his body becomes weak. A terrible illness has taken root in Peter, and he cannot be there to keep David company anymore. This is when Peter begins to talk about his daughter, Miss Meredith Vickers. Until Peter recovers, David must rely on her.

Peter speaks of her with conflicting emotion. His voice is fraught, and yet there is subtle softness in it as well. He tells David this; what Miss Vickers is and what is needed of her are two different things. She has a façade, and finding what lies beneath it is the key to earning her trust. In Peter's words, the things hidden are usually the imperfections of human character: the things that make humans weak. Meredith wants desperately to be one thing whilst in reality she is something else entirely.

The Meredith Vickers that arrives one day to take him with her is indifferent. She doesn't regard him as important or exceptional. But he also takes notice of how she refers to him as _him_ instead of _it_ like everyone else. He takes notice of the way she looks at him with recognition, flashes of emotion she's quick to hide. It is enough to pique his interest and render his default responses useless. It takes him milliseconds to decide he agrees with Peter; she is _something else_.

* * *

David knows when he is unwanted, has learned to read it from the eyes that observe him. He is good at making people like him, to accept him. Peter calls it making friends, tells him that it is the most important skill David can acquire. Making others like him or making himself useful are ways for him to ensure his own survival.

Meredith Vickers is an exception though. She's different, complex. She isn't easy to convince of his usefulness, nor is she easy to become friends with. David takes it as a challenge, an opportunity to expand his horizons, to hone his skills.

But each time he believes he's getting closer, she shuts down. Each time he believes he has figured out a way to please her, she rejects his offerings. He studies her whenever he can, learns more about her each day. Her file is accessed frequently in his memory, each fine detail taken into consideration as he works to serve her. Most of his attempts are brushed aside quickly, deemed unworthy or unnecessary. The food he cooks is left untouched, the maid still arrives to clean the apartment despite his efforts to keep everything tidy, and even the company he keeps with her seems to bring her mostly discomfort.

Regardless, David finds that he likes it here. Meredith asks very little of him, doesn't really need him for anything. In fact, she seems more at peace when she leaves him to his own devices, which makes her a more pleasing master than the quick-tempered Peter, who demands results and works with him tirelessly.

Meredith is more guarded. She keeps him at an arm's length most of the time. It is only when she drinks a little more than her usual dose of alcohol that she loosens up a bit. He finds the delirium that creeps in place quite intriguing. Normally he is not subjected to such human behavior as everyone around him behaves strictly professional. With Meredith he sees both the good and the bad. He doesn't think she notices it when he starts to put the wine on the table without request.

David makes the necessary arrangements to cook dinner for her. He orders the ingredients, cooks them, sets the scene and waits for her arrival. Her arrival draws late, his efforts are wasted, but he is patient above all else. The food is cold when she finally comes home, visibly fatigue, even more reluctant to socialize than usual.

Her outward appearance is usually unblemished: everything from her neatly arranged hair, to the natural make up she wears and her expensive attire is carefully arranged. David has seen her outside these walls and she is an utmost professional there. Within these walls though, she exhibits sides of herself that are not known to many. He is not surprised to see her disheveled, to see that sharpness in her glare reduced to a dull spark, as she enters her apartment. There is no need to look closer to find imperfection, for she does not hide that here. Unruly hair, tired eyes, dry lips or her oily skin do not make her any less imposing in his eyes though.

Her expression doesn't shift when he comes to the door to greet her and take her suitcase and coat. She's become adjusted with the routine, although initially protesting against it, and she allows him to escort her to the living room and the dining table. She doesn't acknowledge him after she sits down and is handed the plate. Meredith digs into the food eagerly whilst he pours her a glass of wine and sits across her.

She eats in silence, guided by the same basic instincts that guide all humans. David observes her silently, priding himself for being able to tell her mood without even hearing her speak. He waits for her to finish her plate, to sip her wine and relax. He waits to hear if he's done well, if this gesture finally puts him in her good graces.

Her appetite is ravenous and it doesn't take long for her to devour the meal he's cooked her. She drinks the wine afterwards, taking her time with it, relishing the taste. Then her dark eyes fall on him.

"Thank you for the meal, David," she says to him softly, that raspy sound to her voice that clues him in on her mood.

"I am glad I could be of service to you," he responds.

Meredith is looking at him now like an enemy, calculating. She then brings her hand to the back of her head and pulls away the pin that holds her hair down, releasing it on her shoulders. She rakes through it lazily, face overcome with disinterest.

"What is it this time?" she asks him, sounding almost mellifluous. Only he knows it is mockery. "We play a game, watch a film, or listen to some music perhaps?"

At this point he stands up and moves into empty the table. David takes her plate, but her hand moves over her glass almost protectively as he approaches, and he leaves it alone.

"Honestly David, what do you want to do? We're both here for your benefit," she urges him, filling her glass again. He's in the kitchen now, cleaning and thinking of her words.

She's smiling to herself, glass pressed against her lips when he comes back.

"Actually I was hoping we would talk. There are some things I'm curious about," he tells her.

There's a brief grimace on her face, but it vanishes quickly. "Of course you are," she nearly whispers, "you _always _are."

He looms over her, doesn't want to sit down to gain eye contact. He likes to look at her from above, to see her so small. She doesn't like that, but this time she tolerates it. It is one of the perks of leaving the bottle to the table, or so he's learned.

"Why aren't you married, Miss Vickers?"

The question makes her stop. She re-evaluates him, this situation, instantly exasperated with him again, but he does not retract the question.

"I don't subscribe to the social norm that it is necessary," she responds after a pregnant pause.

"Reproduction is generally considered one of the strongest impulses of your biological programming," he then says, making his voice velvety soft and smooth to appear less forward.

Meredith shrugs at this, taking another sip from her glass. "The world is overpopulated as it is."

He smiles while she looks away, a dark gleam in her eyes, showing just how uncomfortable she finds this conversation. He has his ways of luring a response though, of making her pliant.

"Not all human association leads to marriage and children," he recounts, the insinuation strong in there now. He cannot seem to please his with his services, and he does not like being unwanted, so perhaps there is something else he can do for her?

Meredith turns her head to him slowly, her thoughts visible for once. The inebriation is starting to take its toll; control slips from her, and he is shown something genuine. He appreciates these moments the most, when he can see her for what she really is.

"So you really wanted to know if I am asexual?" Her voice is cold, precise, "Because you haven't seen me engage in sexual encounters?"

She's very much to the point now, and his certainty falters for a moment. Did he go too far? Did he miscalculate their closeness?

"I'm not without desire. I simply keep it private," she explains with a bite, speaking with the voice of the master, the superior being.

"Prudence," he notes.

"It has nothing to do with _you_."

It seems he did miscalculate, David realizes. There were others around him that found him desirable. He could hear the quickening of the pulse, smell the increase of bodily fluids, lubrication, see the way they gauged him with their eyes. Not with her. To his surprise she considers the thought appalling.

"My apologies. I was merely curious. I hope I am not complicating your personal life," he responds appropriately and fills her glass in order to break off the uncomfortable eye contact. He can tell she's still looking at him though, seething with displease.

"You wouldn't be here, if you were," she whispers barely audibly, yet he hears her. He hears everything.

"I am glad," he says. "Human interaction is healthy. You often push yourself too hard."

And she's laughing. It's a low snicker, genuinely unpleasant. It seems she can't quite keep it inside anymore, judging by the way the corners of her mouth twitch as if without conscious effort. Her shoulders shake with laughter, and then everything else. The fountain of her golden hair falls over her face, the light enters her being at an angle that reveals the dark beneath her eyes, accentuates the effects her workaholic lifestyle has on her body.

He's noticed it of course. It is in his programming, and she's the new master. Before he belonged to Peter, now he is hers. The scientists and testers may prod him all they want, but he is hers in the good and the bad. When she gives him freedom, he appreciates it. When she spends her precious time with him, undoubtedly due to the contract between herself and her father, he is glad to be in her company.

What he learns though is often tied with contradiction. Meredith teaches him about façades, searching for other meanings than what lies in the surface, understanding connections that he did not think about by himself. She's a trying master, but he will find a way to serve her, to see her smile genuinely. It is his most basic programming.

"Your concern is very moving."

Her words are spoken with spite again. He thinks it might be a good idea to stop serving the wine now. With this in mind, David moves and takes the bottle away, half-expecting her to protest, but she doesn't. Meredith seems to be taken by dark thoughts.

"Obviously your purpose is looking after me. No matter how much I tell you to fuck off, you need to follow your damn programming."

When he returns from the kitchen the glass is empty and Meredith is still sitting there, gloomily quiet and staring at her hands. They are trembling no matter how hard she tries to keep them still. She sucks on her lower lip, eyes fluttering a bit as she struggles to regain her self-control, presumably because of the inebriation.

"I am not programmed to like you," he then says, smiling a bit to ease the tension in the air, "but it does help in serving you."

She doesn't take her eyes from her hands, just shifts them anxiously. "And you want me to like you as well?"

"Yes, that would make interaction easier between us."

She's suspicious, of course, as it is her nature to doubt everything. He watches as she sucks her bottom lip for an extended moment, unsure of herself. "And why do you _like_ me?"

He supposes she isn't likable per se. Meredith is difficult, stubborn and she does not adhere to the basic rules of polite conduct. And yet he isn't a mindless thing to her. She treats him like a person: a bothersome person, but a person nevertheless. He takes his time to consider her question and what he should answer her a bit longer than it is necessary or customary.

"You can be wonderful company whenever you choose to be, Miss Vickers," he tells her softly. He chose to tell her the truth, his appreciation of those fine moments when she is laid bare and she has forgotten to hate him for a reason yet unexplained to him.

She rises to her feet abruptly, takes support from the table as she wavers, struggling to maintain her balance. David moves to offer her support, yet he stops midway, alerted by her intense stare.

"And when I'm not _wonderful_? Do you still _like_ me then?"

It is a moment of honesty between them. He has often heard this sadness in her voice, a sign of grief that originates from something he cannot understand. It was there before he met her; it has always been there. He connects with Peter's words from months ago (and a memory of abandonment, of waiting for six hours, twenty three minutes and nineteen seconds before anyone bothered to tell him Peter wasn't coming). Is this the person Meredith truly is?

"I do not know how to answer that question, Miss Vickers," he says with a frown. "Perhaps if you were to provide me with some additional information as to-"

"Forget it," she snaps and turns from him, pulling away quickly.

Meredith closes her hand around the helm of her frumpy blouse and tugs at it, attempting to straighten it. Her knuckles are tensed, white from exertion. Her breathing is strained. Whatever David just witnessed is being replaced by the façade, the person she needs to be. He moves quickly to interrupt the change, because he does like the person underneath better.

She tenses when he puts his hand on her shoulder gently, allowing it to envelope her skin and the thin silken blouse that covers it.

"Perhaps we can both learn to like one another a little better?" he suggests innocently. It is a peace offering.

Meredith seems to have a difficult time with what she is hearing. He can sense her anguish; determine that she is distraught from the outward signs his sensors pick up and analyze. There is no pressure in the hand he has laid on her shoulder.

He cannot tell what her exact thought process is, but she stares forward emptily, lost somewhere in memory perhaps, and he is given the impression she gives his suggestion a lot of thought.

"You're correct," she then says with a distant, almost disembodied voice. "We can have a fresh start."

It pleases him that she would consider this. Although it is a challenge, no one wants to be where they are not wanted. Her home is one of the most curious environments he has been allowed to visit, but it is still her home, not theirs. David has tried to make himself comfortable as she requested, but he has come to realize he does not have a home.

She inhales deeply, holds it in, and then releases the air from her lungs, almost like she believes the act that can expel their previous history. The next time she moves, his hand falls from her. Meredith does not venture far; she simply walks into the living room and sits down on the sofa.

David watches her, standing perfectly still. He is unsure of what just happened.

"I will try harder… _to be wonderful_," she says with a hint of sarcasm, smiling to herself. This is, however, the voice of the Meredith he likes.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **This came together a little quicker than expected. Gladly we're moving onto the more interesting David models, which also translates into longer chapters. Thanks to everyone who's taken the time to leave a review or even put this as a favourite or alert!

_Touch Everything_ - yes, it is "tin can". I made a typo when I was posting the chapter at night. It's been fixed since. But wouldn't have it been interesting if she'd said "tin man", seeing how the theme of that character is reclaiming his heart? ;)

* * *

VIII

Afterwards when she thinks about it, she can only surmise that there was something about his voice that time, something odd. He did not sound himself as he admitted he enjoyed her company from time to time; as he called her wonderful while describing their cohabitation. And seconds after when he thought about his answer to her forward question of liking her even when she is difficult and coarse, Meredith could almost swear she saw some manner of chagrin on his handsome face: An honest-to-god reaction that he tried to hide by averting her attention elsewhere.

Perhaps it was her inebriation that conveniently entered the picture more and more whenever he was around which ultimately crumbled her to submit to his suggestion. Like a child he'd asked if she could learn to like him better, as if that was truly desirable to him. It had come to her then, this simple solution of casting her prejudice aside. They were emotions the child had felt whenever she'd seen the stoic man, the favorite son, at her home. They did not belong to an adult.

And now, despite the occasional setbacks where the android manages to overwhelm her with his inquiries, their cohabitation has become almost pleasant. Meredith has been surrounded by servants all her life, but David has provided her with something she didn't realize she had lacked before: company. He waits for her when she returns home, asks about her day, helps her to unwind and leave her worries behind. She doesn't expect to begin looking forward to this part of her day, yet it happens without fanfare or announcement, rather taking place in silence.

Despite her father's insistency for her bluntness, _because it is beneficial for David's growth_, Meredith notices how she starts to choose her words more carefully. When he asks her why she agreed to have him here, she doesn't tell him she didn't want him here, opting to lie instead. If he can tell she's dishonest, he never expresses it, and so another quiet covenant between them occurs.

David absorbs her every word, and prepares all-encompassing answers to explain him to her at first. His voice is always soothing, almost deceptively so when compared to her honest outbursts and expressions of emotion. David responds to her passive aggression with humility though, promising he will not be in her way; that he will make himself useful.

He analyses everything from the films they watch and the social events they attend to the games they play. Meredith doesn't have such a high regard of people as they are not generally interested in her beyond her title and birth certificate. David's thirst for knowledge and experience is insatiable though, and he is very interested in her. She humors him, knowing she has agreed to the scrutiny herself. But in just a few short months she begins to wonder if he already knows her better than any human.

It is both safe and dangerous, this bond that is forming between them, for she is constantly reminded how easy it is for him to hurt her. Sensitivity isn't a part of their programming. He remains more predictable than humans though, something easily controlled, safe.

Meredith almost grows accustomed to his presence, his questions. She can tell her father is close now; that the android is near-indistinguishable from a human. His behavior reeks of falsity, yet he gets better at pretending. On the outside he is already a near-perfect replica of a man. Sometimes she almost forgets what he is and who he is.

This David sweats, his hair grows and his breath stinks. She can feel warmth when she shakes hands with him, and his skin feels coarse instead of falsely smooth beneath her fingers. The small adjustments help him to fit in better, to feel real. Meredith wonders if she would feel a heartbeat in his chest upon placing her head on it, but she quickly discards such thoughts, reminds herself what it was like to be in his predecessor's arms; how peculiar it felt. She knows she can get lost in the lie if she's not careful, and so Meredith avoids unnecessary contact, choosing to keep her distance whenever possible.

Her work days are long, her social life next to non-existent, but her contract also clearly states when she needs to spend time with David, and so the scientists escort him upstairs every night when their work day ends. Thus Meredith is rarely alone in her own apartment anymore.

He always waits for her, standing still, hands resting against his thighs, his flawless suit in perfect condition.

"Good evening, Miss Vickers," he greets her, like always, and she doesn't quite get used to the fact that he is the first one of his kind to call her by her last name instead of her given name.

"I have prepared an evening snack for you. Would you like to dine in the kitchen?" He moves only when she removes her overcoat and starts to approach him.

"Not tonight." She is weary and uninterested their odd habits at this hour. She can't even say how they started in the first place; how it has become like a well-rehearsed play for them.

He walks to her anyway, takes her briefcase from her hands, studies the dimensions of her harsh face. "You are tired," he states after a moment of observation. "Perhaps a film to relax you?"

Always so servicing and polite, she thinks, walking past him.

Meredith walks to the mini-bar, pours herself a drink and takes a long gulp. The holographic window stretches from one end of the wall to the other, and he has set it to display a sunset. Meredith rarely toggles with the commands, for she doesn't really require such a thing, but David enjoys using the display. She reckons it is because he has not seen the things on display first hand like she has.

When his shadow falls on her, she is reminded of a night long ago when he would sit by her and watch her sleep. The memory isn't exactly comfortable.

"Why not?" She mumbles back at him, stepping out of her high heels. Suddenly they are the same height and his friendly face almost seems enthusiastic.

They have reached a stage where she mostly considers him a glorified butler. This David is the most evolved, but somehow she finds him hardest to deal with so far. He is very good at conveying emotions convincingly, but the problem would seem to be that he does not want to display emotion, save for the unexpected responses he can't quite cover. It makes her nervous, the lack of trying.

Meredith follows him to the living room and sits down on the sofa. The hour is late, but she is taking tomorrow off from work. There is a business trip she needs to prepare for, and she prefers doing this at the apartment. Of course David will most likely be there to let her sleep in and then offer her a half-baked excuse like "_I forgot" _or "_there was a malfunction"_.

She glances at him with this in mind, facing an expression that is almost beckoning while being mostly unreadable. The subtle differences in his expressions are becoming clearer after the first months of this arrangement. Others might claim he is completely emotionless, just a lifeless thing, but Meredith cannot say it anymore without an ounce of doubt. She can see traces every now and then, these small glimpses of emotion. It has led her into thinking he does in fact have a personality, although it is a quite subdued, almost guarded.

He waits patiently for her to choose, standing by the sofa, still but not rigid. Seeing him stand there, Meredith remembers _another_, and she swallows as she feels the burden of this realization becoming a stone in her throat. The pressure is expelled for a moment, yet the image lingers.

She turns on the television screen. "Play film. Lawrence of Arabia."

David sits on the other end of the sofa now, hands carefully placed in his lap as he prepares for the viewing experience. "I have not seen this one before. Is it a period drama?"

Meredith has noticed to her surprise that this model seems to have distinct likes and dislikes, just as her father claimed. He lists things, arranges them by preference and seems to have more room in how he chooses to execute his orders. He never picks anything; instead she is given the choice to educate him, to show him new experiences.

She leans back, makes herself comfortable whilst still holding the glass in her hand. "It is my favorite."

The film starts to roll. David looks at her intently for a moment and then turns his head to the screen. The overture plays over a black screen, yet within moments they're both fully immersed in the film.

He doesn't say anything until hours later when the end credits finally roll.

By then her glass is empty and tears linger in her eyes.

"Why is it your favorite film, Meredith?"

She is not prepared for such a shift in his earlier behavior, such familiarity. Yet it feels right to hear him speak her name after so many years. His voice is different, more intimate.

She brushes away the tear from the corner of her eye, hoping he isn't going to ask about that as well.

"Lawrence is neither an Englishman nor an Arab," she tells him. "He belongs nowhere."

David is silent for a small while as he considers her words. "But wouldn't you say he tried to fill shoes he could not fill?" he then asks, turning to her, a frown upon his features.

"Every king has their reign, but eventually they all fall," she responds.

"You do not mind that his tale is ultimately bittersweet in tone?" He ponders aloud, sounding genuinely inquisitive.

Meredith stands up, and he quickly follows her example, handsome face almost distressed when she does not answer him immediately. She places the glass on the table, glances at the clock on the wall. He is hanging on her words, expecting miracles from her lips, isn't he?

"Life isn't fair," Meredith tells him then, thinking she can only do this so many times. She can only look at that face so many times, to start anew again and again. "You might wish to write that down."

"You appear tense," he tells her, cleverly changing the topic just as her voice grows strung. This time she doesn't want to change the subject though.

Her fierce eyes pour onto him regardless of his comment. "Lawrence wasn't destined for greatness; he took it for himself. But he could not become what he needed to be."

Meredith's voice is cruel and icy as she speaks. She's recalling the face of this great man, a pioneer. Much of the story is fantasy surely, but she is aware that such a man lived once and became legend. She sees him as an idealist tainted by war, a pacifist who learns to enjoy bloodshed, but cannot accept this new identity for himself; Another bastard who tried to carve his own future.

David processes her words in silence, unable to offer her another chance to change the topic after she has shot him down. His gaze then follows her frame. In a second he appears to grasp the similarities, both physical and mental.

"You identify with him."

His words claw at her, and she trembles because of their might, this insight she has given him without intending to. David looks at her with childish wonder, an expression she once saw on the face of another David, but this one has kept hidden from her until now. He looks at her as if he truly understands.

"It's not that surprising though," he then adds, warmth suddenly creeping into his voice. "I hear the film is also your father's favorite."

Meredith looks like she's just been struck down. She's nothing like Peter, nothing like that conniving cold creature, whose only desire is immortality and self-sufficiency! She stands there in front of the android, sees how he observes her reaction unwaveringly. All this time she was trying to get him pegged, to understand what this thing is all about, yet it seems that he's better at figuring her out after all.

"That's enough for the night," Meredith simply tells him and turns around.

"I was hoping we could discuss-"

"That's enough!"

Her voice rises, filling the room, shocking him to an extent. The signs of his displease are quickly gone though, replaced by that blank expression that is there by default. Silence lands, leaving both unsatisfied.

It is way past midnight, the silent hours of the new day are creeping onwards, but they are still here talking about old wounds. Meredith brushes her hair from her face with a shaky hand. She craves for another drink, despite knowing what an ugly habit it is. The other Meredith sees only David though, the effects of her harshness beneath the emotionless mask: There is new sharpness in the way he looks at her, a kind of complacency.

"I shouldn't have raised my voice."

She's as surprised as he is to be apologizing, especially so soon. "It's a touchy subject for me."

The explanation she offers doesn't receive a reply right away. He seems to consider it before he gives her a slight nod. "I cannot pretend to know or fully understand your relationship with your father, but it is my understanding that yours was not… a happy family."

For a second there she sees their family portrait in front of her eyes: Meredith at twelve in her prestigious uniform, her father and his distant royal pose, and David 5 standing a little further, that odd mockery of a smile on his face. She's almost tempted to call it _their family. _

She's uncertain how to answer. Somewhere deep down she knows they are not the same person or even the same machine. Reason tells her this. But her emotions have never been good at separating the models from one another. When David 6 kissed her – as wrong as the word sounds to her – it was also David 5 and 7. When David 7 asked her to be able to begin anew, she saw it as a chance to give and receive forgiveness to and from them all.

"We're very human," she explains instead, "flawed, messy… fucked up."

"You will find your father understands more about the sacrifices you've made for him than you assume," David answers her cryptically.

They play before her eyes like a collage of pictures: hobbies, friends, vices, passions, options, enemies. On top of that list, however, is David, this marvel of science she's despised for a long time simply because he was the favorite.

Her comeback isn't as civilized as before. "My father understands fully what he's asked me to do. He understands and he _enjoys _the power he has over me."

She leaves out the part where this is all going to change, how it is already changing. Every king has his reign. Death spares no one. And his death will liberate her one day soon.

He approaches her suddenly, eyes cast on some detail on her. Meredith is about to say something more when David leans in his careful hand brushing against her cheek. The brief contact silences her, and she stares at him puzzled. It's only when he steps back again that she realizes the moist smear on her cheek, the traces of the tears he wiped away. How didn't she realize she'd cried them?

She blinks a few times to clear her eyes, flustered at being caught like this again.

"It is late and you are upset." David offers her his hand, apparently intent on walking her to the bedroom, as strangely chivalrous as it seems.

She looks at his hand and makes no move in taking it. "Do _you_ ever cry?"

"I am capable of it, yes. Why do you ask?" Doubt visits his face as he must be unable to grasp the intent behind this inquiry.

Meredith continues to push him though. "I know you can. I asked you: _Do_ you ever cry?"

He hesitates. "No."

"Do you ever feel like doing it?"

"…No."

"Is that why you like watching when I cry?"

And just like that, he understands the point she's making. If there was insecurity in him, it vanishes.

"I am able to provide physical responses to emotional stimuli. But your tears are different. They are honest."

There is a trace of emotion there again, a kind of melancholy. Does he desire such emotion? Why? All it's ever been to her was a burden. Yet in fear of him saying more, Meredith places her hand in his and relents.

She expects him to walk her to her room now, but he doesn't move just yet.

"Do you mind if I watch the film again?" His tone is earnest, gentle. "I won't disturb your sleep, I promise."

His hand closes around hers, connecting them. Her heart beats a little faster when he holds her hand, for despite his casual dialogue, he feels closer than before.

She settles to nod at him, glad that he is doing something relatively normal instead of just staring into nothingness. There has yet to be a night that she does not lock her door. Some nights she even dreams of him sitting by her bed, and they are obscure nightmares in her mind, despite the overwhelming feeling of safety they project.

Once they are by her door, she lets go and turns to him one final time. "Don't meddle with the alarm," she warns him.

"No, miss Vickers."

She catches a glimpse of his smile before she closes the door.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Thanks for the reviews everyone! This chapter is a bit longer than usual... and it was difficult to write. I hope the end product is interesting.

Agent Nine - Your plot ideas are pretty interesting. I don't think I'd do justice for your ideas though, as they don't really fit my character development/genre choices. You should try writing it yourself instead. Also I'm not planning to force-fit this with the movie, so this'll veer more towards AU in future chapters. I have an outline I'm following and it's a different idea.

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IX

Her next birthday arrives unannounced. They have been partaking in this arrangement for months now, and her foul moods seem rarer by comparison. She doesn't quite know how he does it, but this David has an uncanny ability to calm her down and take away the negative energy she otherwise tends to harbor in within for too long. Home doesn't feel as empty with him there.

There is anxiety in the air that day though.

She's slept in, and by the time she creeps through the thinly-lit hall towards the kitchen another rainy day is already upon them and she finds David immersed in something by the window. Meredith advances slowly into the living room, eyes set on his unwavering backside. He seems to study something intently, his attention pointed at the pictures laid across the holographic window. She stops advancing once she realizes what these pictures are: it is her and David 5, their uneasy history bared in photographic evidence.

A frown is immediately on her face. Who took these? Did her father wish to flaunt his success with him to business associates? Was it a maid who thought it'd be cute?

The David in the topmost picture is statuesque, but her younger self is full of life, probably unaware that they are caught in the same picture. She poses with enthusiasm for the camera, blonde hair spewed messily on her shoulders, flashy earrings sticking through the cloud of hair. He stands like a shadow at a polite distance, eyes cast on her, attention undivided. Meredith is stuck looking at him, at the first one she hated, and she cannot say why, but it bothers her that his attention is so fully hers and that she doesn't even seem to notice.

"Good Morning Meredith." David turns to her steadily, taciturn for a moment, as if caught without a pre-meditated comment for once. It's good, because she doesn't have a response either.

The picture she noticed is only one of many spread across the window. It seems the android has found quite few of them, all from different eras of her life, all featuring her and the previous models. What is he doing?

She chooses to step forward instead of speaking, and Meredith makes her way to him. Her walk is quiet and doesn't do anything to dispel the unease in the air. David appears to be waiting for an answer, a question, for any kind of reaction from her.

"What are you doing?" she asks carefully, utterly unaware of his intentions. There is fear in her voice, in her being. This is unchartered territory he's entered. Questions that arise could end up being the kind she cannot – will not – answer.

"I did not know you were acquainted with my predecessors." It is an innocent statement, but there's an unknown element to his voice. Is it an accusation? Something about this whole setup feels a bit passive aggressive all of the sudden. Surely he has sneakier means of doing whatever he wants without being caught?

David's gaze appears to be firmly directed at the photograph though. His head tilts a bit and it is as if he is measuring the line of sight for David 5, trying to understand why he is so focused on her younger self.

"It wasn't exactly up to free will."

He turns his attention to her now, undoubtedly piqued by her dry tone of voice. She allows him to observe her, and she stares right back at him. "You were very keen on making friends back then as well."

There's an immediate response to her surprise.

"That is not me," he says sternly, seemingly upset with the notion that she considers him and the android in the photograph the same person.

Meredith takes a deep inhale and rolls her eyes. "I beg to differ," she mumbles, losing interest in this conversation at a quickening rate.

Her attempt to walk to the kitchen is cut short when David blocks her escape, stepping in her way. He appears even more adamant than before, and this is new for her, this side of him. It is an android's equivalent for the need of recognition perhaps?

"You can move now." Her voice is soft: non-threatening, non-commanding. Normally he obeys without a second thought, yet now he remains where he is, standing in front of her, unrelenting. She can feel something tighten in her throat.

"The 05 model was not designed to display and understand human emotions. But I am." He's trying to convince her of his uniqueness. The passion in his endeavor – if you can call it that – is quite something. She feels obligated to listen, to hear his plea.

Then, without warning, he takes her hand in his, thumb rubbing her palm gently. "Is he the reason you want to hate me?"

She flutters her eyelashes a bit in confusion, wanting to remove her hand from his, yet forgetting to do so. Did he just deduce all that from a bunch of photographs? Their entire history she wanted to bury more than anything exposed so easily? Not everything though, her mind whispers, there is the one you wanted to care about.

"Fine then," she sighs, "You're not him. He's not you."

He doesn't relax one bit after her somewhat sardonic response though. David is still holding her hand, but his thump is still, they're both focused on other things.

"What are you doing?"

"What did he do to you?"

Her question is quickly countered and ignored. This one is getting good at evasion, at sneakiness. He directs the conversation, has been directing today's events from the start. And now he's onto something.

"You should ask what I did to him instead," she remarks, trying her hardest to purify her voice from emotion. She remembers that act of violence all too well; how she wasn't able to scrub her hands clean from his white blood afterwards no matter how hard she tried.

"I am sure you had your reasons for mishandling model five," he states diplomatically instead. She doesn't quite believe his uncaring attitude towards the others though. It seems too convenient, neat.

At this, Meredith expels a hollow laugh. "You're smart. I'm sure you can figure it out without me."

Then her eyes fall into the space between them: his hand on hers, the comforting touch, warmth, motion. She tries to pull her hand from his discreetly, yet he resists this.

"Are we not friends, Meredith?" he asks her like he wants her agreement, affirmation for his statement.

_Friend_ is not a word she would use. Hell, she has no idea what word she would use, but friend isn't such a word.

"You're my _property_, David."

He lets go of her hand in that same instant. Somehow she knows he will make way for her if she asks him to, but instead Meredith is caught holding her hand. His touch lingers. She feels the prickle of her own words, her own cruelty. What did he expect? This is what she is! This is what he is!

They stand face to face, a rigid replica of man and a cruel human woman. This is not the first time she has rejected their affection, their care, and it will not be the last either. Somehow it feels different this time though. Just looking at him tells her this is different. David stares at her mutely, stricken down, suffering a complete loss of words. A human would swallow their disappointment, whereas he seems to linger at it, not knowing how to handle it.

"It is true that I am your property," he then says diplomatically, "However I had wished I could also be your friend."

Understanding, compassion, company – all things humans yearned for. Why was his wish about them as well? Shouldn't he wish for knowledge, for freedom? Meredith remembers wanting these things herself all too vividly.

"No matter what I say or do, you _keep_ coming back."

She's lost in memory, in the images of the Davids before him, of her own truculence towards them. How would he learn though, how would he know when each new body is bought with a purge, each new beginning is a tabula rasa?

"I have hated you for fifteen years, but you think we are friends because you have sat with me every night for a few months?"

Her voice betrays how deeply she means these words; how eagerly they roll down from her tongue as bitter poison. A feeling of inevitability surrounds her now, encourages her to finish what is in her heart, this echo of malice and hurt.

"You should write this down. I will never be your friend."

For a second there's relief. She finally said it, these words she's carried with her to him, to all of them. And then the inevitability takes hold of her. Aren't her words directed at someone else, somewhere else?

He doesn't move from her path when she takes another step, landing dangerously close to him instead. The android's eyes are downcast, his entire pose listless, defeated. She feels the dread of this moment expand as she brushes by him on her way to the kitchen. He doesn't move once she's passed him by, just stands there, right where she left him.

By the time she's prepared to leave the apartment he is still standing where she left him, and she does not dare walk up to him. Instead she sneaks out like a coward in the night, closing the door behind her as quietly as possible.

* * *

Meredith does not come home for some hours after the incident between them. And despite the fact that there is no one to witness it, no audience to play pretend to, there is sadness in him. Many things make David sad: poverty, death, war, abuse. But those are all external causes, programming in lieu of true causality. This he feels himself, the emotion of being unwanted, of being rejected by someone whose wellbeing you care about.

David waits for her patiently. He cleans, organizing her scattered papers and keeping the general look of the apartment tidy. While he is at it though, a thought possess him, one that has been there in the long months of their cohabitation (eight months, five days and thirteen hours to be exact).

He knows her habits by heart now; how she will come home exhausted, find something to occupy her mind, ignoring the needs of her body such as hunger; how she punishes herself through exertive exercise whenever she feels uneven; how the liquor cabinet needs to be stocked up at regular intervals due to her unusual consumption. Her behavior shifts whenever she drinks the alcoholic beverages stored here. She mellows without intending to, guards her words more carelessly. Those instances have taught him much about her.

He is not qualified to evaluate the potential dangers of her daily admissions. He can find the cause and effect in her behavior though. It is caused by her inability to withstand negative emotions that spawn from everyday occurrences, judging by her off-hand comments about her work and its challenges. The burden feels lighter when she consumes alcohol for it affects her brain chemistry, brings forth a more agreeable condition, he rationalizes.

The long term effects of alcohol have been thoroughly studied, and he too has taken time to acquaint himself with these studies out of curiosity. The physical and psychological effects are concerning to say the least: impairments in perception and judgment, increased liability to depression, anxiety, the increase of cravings and irritability, just to mention a few. In the span of hours she will come out of that door and pour herself a drink, as she always does.

David is designed to protect humans, to help them. The programming isn't absolute. For example it does not require him to shelter humans from the vices they willingly partake in. It bothers him though, watching her damage herself like this.

So when he moves to the cabinet, opening the doors carefully to find her hidden vice, he acts with her best interest in mind, but also out of retaliation. Her earlier words affected him in a way he did not foresee. Despite her initial dislike of him they had grown closer in his mind, were more than simply master and mindless servant. He wouldn't have hesitated to call her friend until a few hours ago.

If they are not friends, they must be something else. He is uncertain what that something else is. There are ways to find out though. And in the face of her rejection, he feels less inclined to keep from hurting her feelings when it might've stayed his hand before.

David picks up the bottles, carries them to the sink and empties them one by one. He is precise in this task, searches everywhere to ensure nothing is left for her to consume. He knows it will prickle her pride, such unexpected intervention. Perhaps there'll be tears, perhaps she will scream at him. But most importantly he wants to see her expression when she has to face him.

The bottles are disposed of, the swirling unpleasant smell of alcohol washed from the sink. On the surface nothing has changed. His intervention is a quiet rebellion, simply waiting for a spark. David waits for her, face stilled, listening to the sounds she makes in that room.

When she eventually emerges her appearance is a bit disheveled. Meredith gathers herself quickly though, walking through the room with single-minded decisiveness. He can tell she searches for him, but does not holler for him. David does not greet her either, or move to take her coat and briefcase. He stands by the wall, almost becoming one with it – just there for decoration, unimportant.

He follows her movement, recognizing her frustration. She is often frustrated with him, but most of the time she comes around when he makes a genuine attempt to care for her wellbeing. David has not told her, but he finds her much more pleasant company than he did her father. He often wonders if it is because she has no agenda concerning him, because she is enjoying his company due to coercion, and does not make many demands of him. This, being with her now, is as close to freedom as he can ever be.

He watches her move towards the cabinet he's emptied; how she picks up a glass, swallowing irritation, keeping her eyes on the thing she's holding. She reaches for something, anything by looks of it, but frowns when she cannot find what she is looking for. It dawns on her now: the realization that the cabinet is empty.

He watches with focus as she figures it out; How the fragile expressions on her face shift from disbelief to annoyance and then finally unadulterated rage. He's familiar with the external signs of her duress, can read them from her clearly. He prides himself with his ability to notice even the smallest shifts in her behavior, irregularities that tell him how to behave.

Her gaze wanders through the room, finds him by the wall, eyes cast on her. In seconds she grabs hold of the glass on the table and throws it at him. It smashes against the wall, shattering to pieces, yet he is unfazed by this.

"What did you do, David?" She sounds like she is nearing the limit of her patience. Her voice is dark, threatening.

"I am here to help you."

"What did you do?" she repeats, this time a bit fiercer.

"Daily consumption of alcohol is unhealthy for you. It can lead into an addiction."

And then she's pacing through the room, right at him. David braces himself for the impact, remaining calm as her fingers dig into the skin of his throat and she shoves him to the wall violently. He could choose to be unaffected by this, to remain just as he'd been despite the force she applies, but he chooses to submit.

"You have _no_ right," she hisses between her teeth, chest heaving and pulse beating rapidly. His sensors pick up many more signs of her unease, and he silently categorizes this information while she rages.

"Where is it? Where did you hide it?!"

David tilts his head a bit in response, calibrating the answer. He can feel her tremor, and he wonders if it is a symptom of withdrawal or a response to the unwanted emotions she's experiencing.

"I emptied them all."

Her grip around his neck tightens, and it brings forth discomfort. He doesn't breathe or even process pain, so her hold doesn't affect him the way he supposes she wanted it to. There is a definitive sign of weakness present, however. Meredith doesn't utilize much force, can't seem to treat him like an object or a thing to be punished.

She swallows in defeat, something unreadable and desperate flinching on her face as she releases him and shies away a few inches from his intrusive face. Her expression is of pure heartbreak, and his sensors can detect her erratic heartbeat. Her hand hovers above his chest, having retreated from his neck. He can feel the warmth of her breath on his chin.

_You're my property_, she'd said to him. How odd that the insult rather sounded like an affirmation to him. As humans would say, _you belong to me_, or, _you are mine._

And then he sees it; the external signs of desire, attraction. Her breathing becomes more strenuous, tension builds in her muscles, there's a flush of color on her cheeks, but most importantly she looks at him differently. He was correct after all, David realizes, frozen in place. They are standing close now, so close that he could kiss her if he would just lean forward.

They are not friends. And if they are not friends, they must be something else; something that Meredith cannot admit to her or him; something that both fascinates and terrifies him. He knows nothing of being a lover, and somehow if he were to kiss her… The outcome would be desirable, wouldn't it?

David remains still, caught between her and the wall, watching her tremble in the face of desire. Instead of hurting him she wants something else. Feelings he or she cannot fully understand: hormones and electric currents, deceptively dormant lunacy. He has no words for something like that, an uncontrollable force of nature that is bereft of logic.

It amazes him how she can swift from anger to arousal in seconds. No, in fact she seems to feel both at the same time. She's so much more than he is in all her complexity, and it is frightening to him. David cannot remember having such potent fear before; his curiosity has always won.

And then the moment is over. That trace of desire, this understanding between them, is gone.

David remains in place; he was put here by her, and won't move until she allows him to. That is her power, an extension of her control.

He has succeeded in his goal, making her unravel, forcing her to show her feelings. That is his power, his moment of control.

But now her hurt dissipates slowly. She's regaining her confidence.

"Did _I_ hurt _your_ feelings?"

He doesn't answer, realizes the question is rhetorical. Meredith assumes he did this out of rebellion, as a human would. Perhaps it is better that she does.

She examines him, perhaps expecting a cheeky comment, another sign of rebellion. He submits though. The moment is over and they return to their preset roles. She is the master and he is the servant.

"You're right. You're nothing like them."

Meredith looks uncomfortable in her own skin, almost shaken.

"None of them ever hurt me on purpose."

He is unsure if she means the act of betrayal or something else. It is quite clear that he has yet again succeeded in gaining an extreme response from her. This new information leaves him somewhat bewildered, and so he does not respond to her accusation. For once David cannot say what his intention was in the end even when it was so clear to him before (recognition, confirmation?), and it is only now that he recognizes making the choice to proceed this way willingly regardless of the consequences.

He notes that she does not leave the apartment to fetch herself a drink. Instead she retires into her room, making sure the door is locked.

David is left alone. He remains where she left him for awhile until he finally moves. He would rather stay with her, even after the recent events. Even with her hostility she still treats him like he is important, a person of his own. And while many things make David sad, seeing her hurt makes him sadder.

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: **First off, sorry I haven't been responding to reviews this week. It's been all kinds of crazy! Secondly, yay the dvd is out! I already watched all the commentaries, deleted scenes, making off etc. and I must say it's been very insightful. Especially for Meredith. No sex scene though, heh, as predicted.

Thanks to everyone for your comments and thoughts! It's nice to know you think I'm keeping things realistic enough. I'm only writing AU for creative freedom, you know, so I'm trying to keep the characters themselves.

* * *

X

Meredith dreams restless dreams in the passing months. Something about that moment is wandering in her subconscious, swimming through thoughts and memories. She buries it deep in order not to process it consciously, to not admit guilt or anything else, especially this undetermined element that's added to their relationship.

David doesn't speak about it again, and neither does she. It isn't the first incident to be treated this way by them, and it won't be the last. The cycle repeats. Silence condemns them into it.

Meredith thrashes in her sleep, twisting and turning, her lean torso covered in sweat, smooth skin flustered, and her cheeks red. There is no one to drive away the nightmares that slither into her dreaming. They have no clear shape or form; her nightmares are simple ideas, emotions, and undesirable states of being. They are ghouls and echoes of the past and dreaded future.

Her dream ends abruptly, waking her in the dark. She's panting, her throat is dry and sore, her skin demands air. For a moment she simply lays on her side, regaining her bearings, dizzy and exhausted, then she pushes her covers aside and welcomes in the cold. The cold air wakes her completely, but the heat that's dwelling in her muscles, burning and aching, convinces her of that an illness stirring. Fever, probably.

Meredith stares at the ceiling, overcome by dark thoughts. She remembers little of her dreams, but something remains: an emotion she remembers from her childhood. She cannot rid herself of it. Her hand reaches for a blanket that she ties around her shoulders as she rises from the bed and begins her walk into the living room.

It is murky and quiet in the apartment. David is off to one of his nocturnal activities, as he does not sleep and rather spends his time educating himself and experiencing the world. Tonight she's glad for it. Meredith fumbles forward in the dark, moving at an excruciatingly slow paste until she sits down on the sofa and lifts her feet on the edge, knees hugged against her stomach. The screen registers her gaze and turns on, a question appearing on the screen.

WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO WATCH?

"Open the Weyland files."

Quickly the screen fills with folders, endless options marked only with dates. Meredith moves her fingers slowly over a tablet, scrolling through the folders until she finds the one she is looking for. The clip starts and she sinks into the sofa, relaxing, lying her head over her arm that's sprawled on the arm of the sofa.

The clip she picked is more than thirty years old and shows her father, a young man then, in one of his numerous live appearances. He is interviewed thoroughly on the subject of the latest developments at Weyland Industries. Meredith doesn't focus too much on what he says or how he appears though, for what she seeks is the emotion inside her, something she once felt: Attachment, respect, and admiration.

When she was still a child she would watch her father's live appearances with her tutors, the maids, or simply by herself. Peter was magnetic to behold; he had the charisma of a great leader, the words of a prophet, and the daring of a demigod. What was there not to love? His brilliance was something for her to strive for her, his acceptance more important than anything. Peter was called a genius, a living legend, and she believed everyone. She idolized him.

However as she looks at him with an adult's eyes, all she sees is arrogance and hubris, an inflated sense of self in a man who thinks he has no equal. This belief is so strong that he spends centuries in trying to build him one.

Somewhere beneath the hatred she's carried for two centuries, she misses feeling such innocent love for him. Back then such little things made her happy: An acknowledgement from her father, a new piece of information about him. And she loved the stories people would tell her about his exploits. How he would gain his fortune through making mining profitable off-world, how the colonization of Mars was possible through the Weyland terraforming technology, or how Peter would be knighted in his mid-twenties as one of the youngest persons in history.

Meredith isn't sure if Peter's fading luminosity is due to his dwindling age and obsession or the loss of her own innocence. So she watches him in silence, trying to make up her mind, her body burning as the disease attempts to devour her inside out. This is how David finds her a half an hour later when he returns.

She registers his arrival as the door opens and the android carefully moves inside with minimum noise. David doesn't seem to notice her at first, but when he does, he quits everything else and walks into the living room. She can imagine a frown over his forehead, worry created by his programming.

"Miss Vickers?" He stands by her, hands held behind his back.

"I couldn't sleep. I think I have a bit of a fever," she responds, attention firmly in the image of her father.

"Should I call you a doctor?"

"We'll see about that in the morning."

He does not argue her point, but focuses on the display instead, seemingly intrigued by what she is watching. She expects him to ask something, to inquire her purpose, but instead he walks past her and sits down on the sofa. His pose is stiff as he sits with a straight back, his hands resting firmly on his knees. Her toes are barely a few inches from him, but the closeness doesn't matter. Meredith is too weary to move or hiss commands at him.

The clip changes to a fresher one, a news report on the worsening condition of Peter. Weyland Industries has been issuing updates to all the news outlets on his condition. People have called it karma that he is ravaged by the very same disease his company has helped cure; that he is so unfortunate to belong into 2% of cancer patients that their patented technology cannot cure. Peter spins the story with unfaltering optimism. His recovery will be a miracle.

"Are you worried about your father?"

She supposes it's an honest question. He knows their relationship is hardly normal, but assumes there is some remaining affection between them regardless of the past. In moments like these, she is often annoyed by his vigilance and ability to pick up the little things others often miss altogether. So now she is faced with two options: lying, which he will undoubtedly recognize, or telling the truth, which expose too much to _him_. Oddly she finds herself too tired to give a fuck.

"I'm worried the Devil won't claim him quickly enough." She shifts a bit, looking for a more comfortable position as she speaks.

It only occurs to her now that is in only in her underwear and dressing gown underneath the blanket. The thin veil of her attire bothers her somewhat, makes her more self-conscious when he is in question. She could be perfectly comfortable with another human, but not him. Her stare is dark as she examines him discreetly.

"Is that a saying I am unfamiliar with or your affirmation of faith?" He gives her this slightly creepy smile she's come to recognize as a sign of jest. David loves language, the nuances and the multiple meanings it has. He often questions her like this, although this time she's fairly certain he already knows the answer.

"No, I'm not a believer." Her remark is dry, bothered as if she'd expected him to know better by now.

"But if I were," she then continues, "I'd assume my father would've been raptured many years ago for his achievements – _if_ God wanted him. So the other option seems more likely in my opinion."

"I see." He smiles again, understanding her dry sarcasm. How odd that _he_ enjoys it when her father always hated it.

She sinks a bit and her toes press lightly against his thigh. There's no visible reaction to this, but she looks out for one either way. Under normal circumstances she would not rest so close to him, but now her body slowly fails her and control slips from her muscles. Her blonde hair is glued against her scalp by her feverish perspiration, and she tries to wipe her fringe from her forehead with her shaking hand. Even her shallow breathing sounds troubled.

And then she feels his hand against her moist forehead as he leans in suddenly. David doesn't speak, just performs the action he set out to do, and Meredith doesn't object, realizing that he's probably measuring her fever. The contact feels a bit uncomfortable, and she chooses to try and ignore it in favor of the screen where her father is in his prime again, speaking about gods and Prometheus and technological advancement. She has seen this TED speech many times. It is how she became acquainted with Lawrence of Arabia and watched it in the first place; because she wanted to understand her father.

"Your body temperature _is _elevated, Meredith. You are currently at 102,7 degrees Fahrenheit," David states calmly. She notices he doesn't retract his hand despite having reached his conclusion.

"I figured as much." She pulls away, feels his fingers slip from her forehead, stained in her sweat now. Meredith doesn't rise though, just pulls the blanket on her tighter.

He hesitates before he withdraws his hand. David does not resume watching the clip she's trying to view. For a moment there he remains as he is, before he stands and lays his hands on her shoulders. "You should rest now," he tells her and gently tugs her towards him.

"No," she protests, wanting to stay, to find that something she's lost, the ability to appreciate her father. If she just does this for a little while longer…

"The best thing to do now is sleep. I will find medicine that will lower your fever. " He helps her on her feet and the blanket falls.

She leans into him, only the thin fabric separating his bare skin from hers. It disturbs her more than she'd like. Meredith allows him to lead her towards the bedroom though, knowing already there is nothing she can do to be in that place again: that place in her dreams where she is loved and appreciated, before the shapeless anxiety tears everything to pieces.

"Does it disgust you?" She asks him, clinging onto his strong arms as they move in unison, "Our damned frailty?"

"I quite appreciate your frailty."

And yet his response feels like an empty sentence, just verbiage he's learned to repeat mindlessly. She rejects this, "You're going to live forever, David, so spare me the elegant phrases."

He helps her on the bed, gentle as always, and pulls the covers on her. However instead of leaving he sits on the edge of her bed, leaning slightly over her. It is reminiscent of another David, who cared for her this way: The one whose kiss haunted her for so long. She feels powerless to look away; something about him draws her gaze. Maybe it is the way the dying light behind him looks like it almost gives him a halo.

"That is incorrect. I am a prototype. In time I will be replaced." But he is not calm about it, not really. She can see the unseen ripples saying this creates in the calm surface. And she is genuinely piqued by this understanding, a glimpse into his otherwise shielded character.

"Does that make you anxious?"

It would seem he did not anticipate her question, for he takes a moment to prepare a suitable answer. David even looks away for a bit, shying from eye contact when he is normally very direct.

"I will have fulfilled my purpose," he states, and she knows he's telling her what his programming tells him. And he probably sees her dissatisfaction clearly when their eyes connect again.

"Much will be lost, years of experience," he then says, and his voice is a bit more muffled, restrained. He isn't supposed to talk like that, and yet at the same time she recognizes it is exactly what she wanted to hear.

"_You_ will remember me, won't you, Meredith?"

His request comes out of the blue, and she is not prepared for it. The words slip out before she has a chance to think them through. "I will."

There's a notable change in his demeanor. If there was anxiety, it is now replaced by elation. How can such a small admission make him happy? Of course she'll remember him. There's nothing she can do to forget. He's been in her life for almost as long as she can remember. There are so few clear childhood memories without him.

"I hope your memories of me will be more pleasant than your memories of my predecessors," he then says politely, as if wanting reassurance about that as well. David looks at her, waiting for an answer. There is a momentarily pregnant pause.

"I suppose… I will look back at our time together more fondly than the rest." It is but a mumble, spoken with such fragile voice that an unobservant listener might miss altogether. He doesn't miss anything.

David picks up a pillow from her side and moves it behind her head to help her move into a more comfortable position. Then he hands her a glass of water that stands by her night stand. She drinks from it eagerly, at his mercy as he holds the glass and controls the flow of water to her mouth. The water is refreshing.

"Has your mind changed?" He asks upon moving the glass back to the night stand. She knows he means her opinion of him.

"Is this about my father?" She changes the topic, suddenly realizing how this all fits together. They are in this arrangement because her father fades away at a hospital, fighting aggressive cancer.

Nothing on David's face betrays the question even had any effect on him. "Mr. Weyland has been very generous with his time. I am grateful that he has taught and experienced things with me."

He would prefer being with Peter obviously. The android has the same dull-eyed, uncritical respect for his maker as they all have had. Something about it irritates her, that David still cannot see any fault in Peter after she's tried to deconstruct his image for months now. Does he fancy himself _a velveteen rabbit_ that Peter's love can somehow make real?

"Are you alright?" His question brings her back from that poisonous train of thought, leaves her blinking in confusion. David is looming about, and his hand rests comfortingly on her wrist.

She cannot deny it. They would both suffer if Peter were to die. David may or may not understand that his survival is largely dependant on Peter.

"If he dies…," her voice fades midsentence, and she clears her throat a bit in order to continue. "You can stay here if you like."

It's a foolish thing to do – to offer an android solace in case he needed some – yet she feels a bit foolish tonight. She's fairly certain Peter's will contains ample instructions on David's fate upon his demise, so she won't probably even have a chance to keep this promise. Yet she felt inclined to tell him this.

"Thank you, Miss Vickers," he says. She can only describe him heartfelt at that moment, which proves how delirious she's become.

"Now get me that medicine and then get the hell out of my room."

David smiles at her warning and stands up. "Yes, Miss Vickers."

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: **For the sake of my sanity, I'm trying to avoid filler chapters. Also trying to move along the plot and timelines. So although I love hearing your suggestions, I can't accommodate them into the narrative most of the time. Thanks again for all your thoughts and comments!

* * *

XI**  
**

David has taken a habit out of _daydreaming_ – or at least it is what he believes he is doing (no human word accurately describes the action). The action is not beneficial for his duties, nor does it enhance his ability to perform them. He gets lost in thought sometimes and simply stands for an extended moment, unresponsive to outside stimuli, his focus on memory, as it is his most valuable possession.

He has divided his memories onto categories: the ones implanted and the ones experienced. Within the range of experiences there are also different kinds of experiences: pleasant, neutral, unpleasant, and then there's her. Meredith is category of her own for reasons he cannot name outright. There are all kinds of memories related to her; in fact one could say there is an entire spectrum of memories. None of them are easily labeled as they do neatly fit under a single category, but end up filling more than one at the same time. It's disorganized.

When he daydreams it is the memories concerning her that he revisits; Situations he thinks differently about; Mistakes he wishes he had not made (despite the clear truth that making them taught him something new, important); Moments where he was overcome. He looks back and forward. It is unprecedented that he looks forward so much, _imagines_ so much. It serves no purpose but torture. Yet he continues to do so, understanding this very well.

Nothing is constant with Meredith. Things change all the time, often without a clear reason. Take her door for example. She has stopped locking it months ago. It used to be the gateway to her final fortress, a place he could not enter under any circumstance. And still he has not been in her room since he treated her fever one night some time ago. It doesn't mean that he doesn't remember exactly what it was like to be inside.

As it would be an intrusion of privacy to enter without invitation, David settles to reminiscence. While the rest of the apartment is modern in its interior decorating and full of furniture and art that's always been here, her room has a more personalized look. A lot has been imported from previous apartments no doubt. The furniture feels out of place, looks worn and old. They have the feel and look of things with previous life led, marks all kinds serving as proof of it. They do not fit together either. Each piece feels unique, stands out from the whole.

But the thing that draws his gaze more than old books, which have been read many times with love and care, or any other remnants of her past life, is the painting that hangs on her wall. It is _Dante's Dream_ by Dante Gabriel Rossi, a frequent illustrator's Dante Alighieri's work in the 18th century. It is the most outrageously expensive thing she owns, and yet she does not flaunt it, choosing to keep it only for private eyes in her quarters instead. He knows it was a gift. Someone knew her taste quite well.

David remembers exactly how her room looked. How everything was set, how the light descended upon every object, how it smelled, how it felt. He remembers the lone painting on the wall, depicting the moment of Beatrice's death in Dante's dream, shrouding it in even more romantic illusion if possible. It is a pleasing thing to look at, this old masterpiece. Meredith is actually a generous philanthropist who supports art and culture, unlike her father. She has an appreciation for beautiful, flawless things.

He feels he still does not understand her, even after their long cohabitation. He feels he should've learned more during this time. It is probably why he has desired for more time longer than he has desired anything else. Ever since he realized time was an expendable element instead of a inexhaustible one, David has striven to use his time with maximum efficiency. And as he looks back at this journey now that it is ending, he does wish they would've had more time.

Peter never hid it from him. He believed fear was what makes humans humane. Peter often inquired David if he felt fear over his impending expiration, death. David could answer him perfect honesty that he did not. Peter has been the most wonderful teacher for David, but he never yearned for more than he could get with Peter. With Meredith though, that yearning has been there ever since she first looked at him with those cold eyes and deemed him _just another android_.

If David was to ever feel fear, this is probably the closest he will get to it. There is anxiety in the air tonight. So when David enters her room this time he is not daydreaming. His thoughts are in disarray, fueled by the need to say goodbye. In his mind it is only fitting it should happen here now that he's been granted access.

When he enters she is already standing upright, and she turns to him with a puzzled expression, mute from surprise. He notes how he no longer pays attention the ugly details in her: unclean skin, the dark circles around her eyes or her uncut hair. He has learned to look past these things as he has become more interest in what lies beneath her deceptive exterior. It is a strange feeling that overcomes him when she shows no exasperation with his intrusion, but rather responds with worry.

"David?" Her hands fall from her breasts to her sides. The long robes she wears indicate she must've just finished up with her yoga practice and been on her way to the shower.

"Pardon my intrusion, Miss Vickers." He is not sorry at all though. This is what he wants.

Dante on the wall is too wrapped up in his vision of mortality to pay them any heed, yet Meredith looks at David with undivided attention. Can she sense it already: The bitter taste of goodbye?

"I received the call about him," she says, guarded. He suspects she doesn't know what to feel yet.

Peter's recovery is considered a miracle in the press, as anticipated. The cancer is gone and he will live on. The claim the devil had on him in her mind is slipping. And as agreed, David is expected to return to him. This is an end to their arrangement, and although David knows she is more than capable of looking after herself, he would not mind doing it for a little longer (_for as long_ as she would ask him to).

"This is wonderful news for you, isn't it?" Meredith doesn't appear joyous or relieved one bit. In fact, she looks somewhat listless, apathetic. Her words are verbiage meant to project an illusion.

"I had quite enjoyed our time together." He always says what he means with small words, understating his intentions and wants. He learned it a long time ago. Opinions were not tolerated so easily. It was better to blend in, to be just a casual observer instead of active participant.

At his words, Meredith loosens up a bit. Her posture relaxes and a smile almost tugs at her lips. "You always say the nicest things…" she mumbles more to herself than him.

But as she glances at the fireplace, he also sees the glass resting over it. How foolish it is of him to expect her to change her ways, and yet he was almost proud when she did not appear to be in the grip of her vices after their argument. Now he recognizes his own hubris; the foolish belief he could change her so easily. However this raises the question if she put up an act _for him?_ To spare his feelings?

He then recognizes the signs of stress in her. How long has she been awake? How long has been here alone, thinking of the distant father emerging victorious? Does she grief this for it is the end of her power and position? Does she feel grief over their impending separation? As usual her way of dealing with this is to have a drink and think it through alone.

"To be honest, you are my favorite person." He moves his hands behind his back, bows his head the slightest bit for he says this to her with the utmost humility. It is a compliment and a truth he wants her to know.

"Really? Don't tell my father," she jests a bit, flashing a bit of teeth with her sardonic grin, "You'll make him jealous."

He doesn't ask her to change anything. David knows she doesn't have the power. Neither of them are gods who can turn worlds upside down on a whim. Neither of them is free from Peter's influence and desires. David is property and so is she, in her own way.

"I will miss you."

It comes most unexpectedly, her confession. For someone who adores romanticism, she herself speaks bluntly, stating only the absolutely necessary. He is glad to hear this though. It is the thought beneath the words that matters, not how she says it.

"You will?" he asks in surprise.

"You can be very pleasant company when you choose to be, David."

—For he has not always been pleasant to her. He has hurt her on purpose, acted on personal interests rather than hers, and been difficult to deal with. Somehow this only makes her recognize him as a person rather than a thing. And her admitting that she has valued his presence, his company, the memories they have created together, does give him some manner of peace.

The next time he daydreams, will he dream of this moment?

David takes a hesitant step forward. "I have been informed I will be transferred to Mr. Weyland this evening."

She gives him a slight nod of understanding. Streaks of blonde hair have fallen over her eyes and her lashes touch her hair when she blinks. David's processors could drown in details like these for they are too myriad to count. Something inside him picks which ones to notice and which ones to ignore. He processes them all, yet most of them do not enter his consciousness unless specifically looked back on. He likes to believe he only notices the elements that are pleasing to him, and ignores the ones that are not.

He takes another step and then another until he is closer to her. She has such classic features that they often remind him of art, however, close up and in bad light he can also see the resemblance between the two of them. He wonders if anyone ever mistook them for siblings, hurting her with such commentary. If they did, he wishes she did not give them the pleasure of seeing her pain.

David spreads his arms quietly, giving her ample time to retreat or protest. She does neither. Instead she allows him to embrace her. The embrace is light, yet through the contact of their skins, he can feel her heartbeat quicken. David listens to it, how it beats life into her. It is invigorating to hold her, to connect with that life in her.

"For a tin man, you have more heart than most," she tells him. The stench of alcohol is in her breath. He doesn't even know how long she's been up, thinking about this. Perhaps she has been here all along, daydreaming as well?

"What you're saying makes no sense." And on the surface it does not. Yet it is her admission to his humanity, this piece he'd obtained.

He pulls back unwillingly. "Be happy, Meredith."

And then he walks away.

* * *

In the years between David does in fact often think back to that moment of goodbye. Now his time is up, and he remembers holding her that time. David sits in his designated chair and Peter sits from across him. He is talking, but David isn't listening. These precious minutes he has left, he would rather use them to connect to something he cherished than hear another grand speech.

David is good at pretending to listen, to focus. He is elsewhere already.

Words slip by him, Peter's words about gods and destiny and fear. David thinks about their family instead, or rather about her. _Don't tell him_, she'd said, and so he hadn't. Looking back David hadn't understood why, but he does now. In Peter's eyes he is another failure, another failed attempt to reach divinity. To Peter nothing else matters but his own goals. And if there was an individual David could grow attached to, it would have to be Peter.

"You have been very good, David," Peter tells him, as if talking to a child. His voice is soft, clear from any emotional charge. His body language betrays his need to be done with this, done with him.

"Thank you Sir."

David casts his eyes to the tinted window above; it hides an observatory balcony where the scientists are undoubtedly observing them. Although this is not a ceremony, many people have gathered there, probably preparing to say goodbye to their project. Their feelings are not much deeper than the feelings of an owner about to lose a pet, or so David suspects. It is alright though. David has not wanted their feelings, merely their acceptance.

"What lies ahead is a journey." Peter's body language shows that it is a lie. The old man's heart rate increases, his voice is a little strung.

"Truly Sir, I do not need comfort," David insists. He doesn't need false sympathy.

"Yes, yes of course."

David follows the silhouettes of the on lookers discreetly through the tinted glass. A human would not be able to see them, but he is not a human, is he? He can connect with faces and recognize people from just a partial profile. He doesn't expect to recognizeone of them though, for caught in the corner is Meredith. The way she stands reveals her identity. The details are blurred, but he knows it's her. She's come to see him off.

Peter looks at him expectantly. David keeps his stoic expression, choosing calmness over anxiety. According to Peter, it is more dignified to notify him before hand of the shutdown. David believes this is due to Peter's own fear of death and need for control. The nicest thing he imagines he can do for someone else is a manner of control over their demise. The thing is David's anxiety is slowly going away.

David was afraid once, some years ago. It was when he first questioned his mortality. But back then he received assurance of his legacy, of his importance. He realized he wouldn't simply seize to be one day; there would a hole in his stead, one not easily filled by another. If that was so, it had to mean he too mattered. That his existence had had a purpose, and that he had been more than a tool for that purpose. That he is more than _just another android._

Seeing her up there now, reminds him of this. She has not forgotten, and he does not believe she will.

"Have a good journey, David."

"You too, Mr Wey-"

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: **Unfortunately this story will be on hiatus for November. I'm participating in NaNoWriMo and it will my #1 priority for the month. Also since I'm writing it in another language I can't have two sets of characters and languages in my head at the same time (and a good respite is always beneficial). Don't worry though, I'll start up the usual updates early in December and before that I should have time for chapter 13 at least. :)

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XII

Meredith Vickers becomes the youngest VP in the history of Weyland Industries at only 30. There is gossip about her being ill-suited for this position; that her choosing is simply nepotism. At the same time there is gossip that she would've obtained an even higher rank in the company if she did not have too little experience for it; that this is a test run meant to prepare her for the harsh reality of running the company one day. It is always _one day_ in the minds of the people who speak these rumors, envying from afar.

In Meredith's mind it is not a distant future at all, seeing how her recluse father is bad PR for the company already. Peter has given up his position as CEO following his recovery some years ago, and his successor is holding the fort together, but it is no secret that Peter still holds the reins of the company and has a say in every big decision. He is a puppet master, and anyone who's been paying attention to the game played here knows Meredith is headed to be his successor.

She doesn't know when exactly Peter changes his mind and returns to reality. Is it when he realizes his creations are flawed? Is it when he begins to fear death so much that he clings onto religion despite his previously agnostic views? Is it when _that woman_ begins to make video calls to him, pitching her ridiculous ideas? Peter has set his gaze somewhere else than his company these days, somewhere far away. And while he still doesn't believe Meredith can do a good job on her own, he believes she is someone he can control. She lets him think that for now.

When Peter offers her the position of VP and asks her which department she would like to run, there are ample choices for her: health, transportation, energy, electronics, terraforming, security and cybernetics. She chooses cybernetics out of these options to his surprise. He doesn't ask why, and she doesn't provide him with an answer. She has excuses to spare though.

Most of the other options would require her presence at Mars. Terraforming would require long travels out of the system. Health and security are mundane to her. But cybernetics, there is something about their progress with artificial humans that intrigues her. When she is interviewed after the public announcement of her new position, she claims to have gained an insight to the development of androids from her youth when she lived with different Davids. It doesn't take much to launch her image successfully to the masses, and in a few years' time Meredith becomes a recognized face, a symbol for the Weyland androids.

In a controversial move, Meredith actually participates in their latest commercial campaigns. Her image is used in advertising, which many initially deem inappropriate for a woman of her position. The choice turns out to be surprisingly effective. She stirs the bland market and turns anonymity into something recognizable. Her public persona is that of an iron maiden, one blessed with intelligence, fortune and a notable family. This is the role she has played all her life, the mask her father has given her. It helps brand her into a product all on herself.

And so Meredith becomes the next generation of Weyland Industries.

Business booms and her leadership is a success. Her greatest initial critics are silenced. Peter betrays neither complacency nor disappointment. He doesn't tell her to stop though, and so she continues.

Comparisons to her father are unavoidable. Her face is more appeasing to the hungry crowds, her carefully crafted statements more tangible than the elusive dreams of an ageing pioneer. She seems more humble in comparison, less imposing. Her popularity is the result of a carefully crafted campaign. In three years Meredith Vickers is more known to the everyman than her father.

It is the twilight of his fame. And as his reign is about to end, hers is just beginning.

Rumors also fly about her private life, despite her cruel working schedule. There are many who would take interest in her now. She doesn't come across truly interesting people very often, and when she does, she's hardly ever attracted to them both intellectually and physically. It doesn't stop the gossip. Meredith chooses not to complicate things for now. There are other ways – less daunting and troublesome ways – to sate one's desire.

Meredith uses her spare time indulging herself in one of the few passions of her life: art and literature. She's a generous philanthropist, often spotted at cultural events. Her presence alone gives them credit, exposure and revenue. Invitations arrive quite often; she barely has time to attend the ones she's interested in. But there is one pet project she's gladly involved in: the new opera based on _La Vita Nuova_. She is their chief financer and a treasured partner.

So when the opening night of _La Vita Nuova_ arrives, Meredith is participating in the event with an almost ardent enthusiasm. She makes sure the event is successful and invites several business contacts as well as employees for the premiere. But Meredith herself arrives alone.

She sits through the opera, mesmerized by the music and the performances, although she can't quite justify the odd narrative structure. And when the intermission arrives, Meredith drinks her champagne calmly before facing her audience as it makes it easier for her to grit her teeth and produce a false smile for them. The crowd is full of eager souls who crave for her presence, even a spot in her shadow. An art critic ask her if her company could ever create machines capable of interpreting art or creating it. Her elusive answer is _maybe_.

After that Meredith lodges herself in the party of her business associates, hoping to endure more tolerable company. She's not far off. Her so-called equals are all alumni from private schools, mass produced by the same machine that has spat her into the world as well. Their chatter is nothing but chatter, and it suffices.

"No, no Meredith! Tell them about your childhood dream!" An old acquaintance encourages her.

"I wanted to study art history, can you imagine that?" Meredith tells them and the circle of sycophants erupts in laughter.

"Really? What happened to that idea?" They wonder, acknowledging her teenage ambitions as pathetic.

"My father was wise enough to turn my head," she explains, radiant on the outside. The words taste like ash in her mouth. The truth is she wanted this desperately. Art was her passion, yet her father demanded she study something that would give her a purpose. As usual his will was stronger than hers.

None of this poison shows through her exterior, all the bitterness remains simply a part of her inner monologue. She can't afford to tell the truth.

"Who is to say you would've not prospered in the field, Miss Vickers?" A distant voice suggests with a witty tone. "I believe you're all too quick to judge her capabilities."

She actually snorts at this comment, at her unknown defender. It is most likely another social climber hoping to impress her. Still she does get enjoyment from shooting their futile hopes down.

"Don't be so convinced of my talents. I believe the art world was spared in this case," she professes with a hint of sarcasm, searching for her correspondent from the circle.

There is a round of polite laughter from her peers; however one man at outskirts of the circle seems to settle for a smile. Meredith's gaze locks onto his profile, and she realizes he is not familiar at first glance. His features are soft and pleasing to her eyes, and she can tell that his suit is tailor-made for it embraces his fit form well. This stranger has definitely caught her attention and she is about to make another remark directly to him, when he suddenly turns to her and she is overcome by a flash of recognition.

Distraught Meredith gathers herself, hides her shock behind an act of cool detachment in seconds. By then she appears the same as always, almost like a reflective surface. Meredith struggles to maintain her mask of indifference as she faces the courteously smiling android.

There are changes to him, starting with the way he holds himself. The posture is less awkward and more relaxed, more natural. His blue eyes appear almost surreal. If she did not know, Meredith thinks to her horror, if she did not know what he was she could not tell him apart from the rest of the crowd.

They do not speak further, and Meredith's attention is grabbed by old acquaintances. She keeps him in her sights though, trying to reason with herself and think of an explanation as to why he is present here. Meredith finds her attention drifting towards him even as she is talking to other people, mingling as is expected of her.

Eventually he finds his way to her all on his own. She sees him from afar, but does not flee even as her calm crackles. For years she's held onto the memory of his predecessor, unwilling to meet this one even when it would've proven useful for her. As he walks to her, Meredith has to wonder if this is her reckoning catching up with her. There are many sins to atone for.

"It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance." David extends his hand to her like so many times before. However, this one moves unlike before, with a sense of normalcy that was once absent. He is wearing a suit that compliments his physique. She notices the small stalks of darker hair on his chin, and there is a tidy parting in his dark hair. His complexion is pale, and yet he fits right in here, looks the part of a bored millionaire.

Meredith shakes his hand, finding his grip firm. Most of the things she used to take notice of and categorize as abnormal seem to be fixed. They have done a frighteningly good job with this new model.

"David," she says politely, withdrawing her hand from his lingering grip.

He smiles knowingly at her response, moving closer to whisper, "I see you know who I am."

Meredith takes notice of his neck, the clean and smooth skin that is without a tattoo of his designation. She knows his number though, having been the one to approve the annual budgets for his department. He is number eight, the greatest machine built yet.

"I suspect I am the only one," she answers him and begins to lead them towards a more private area, hoping they will not be easily disturbed there.

Meredith wonders about his reason for being here. Is it simply another her father's preoccupations, this game of playing human? Is there any other alternative? She finds herself hoping, against all common sense, that there might be something besides thoughts her father has implanted in him: A personality or a trace of individual drive.

After she's guided them a little further away from others, he puts down the empty champagne glass in his hand. "You should not worry about exposure Miss Vickers," he tells her, sounding quite convincing. "I have a file."

Meredith isn't surprised to hear about her father's precautions for his precious prototype. In the age of instant knowledge, one must make preparations for concealing their identity. David's picture undoubtedly connects to a false file if a search is initiated, which is the only reason Peter allows David to go anywhere. Previously he would always launch each new line of Davids with a new default face as well as an assortment from which the customers could pick their own. Only a select few know this face. She supposes it is because of her father's attachment to it and the uncanny resemblance to her deceased uncle.

"Why are you here?" Meredith chooses to put out the question outright. She's too weary for games.

The android seems to give his answer some thought – as a human would – and his eyes absorb her figure graciously while he thinks. If she didn't know better, she might've assumed his interest was beyond clinical. Her rational mind tells her he is getting better at playing human.

"Curiosity," David finally answers, "I have heard and read much about you. It was my wish to meet you in person."

Meredith did not expect this. She finds the sudden attention a bit overwhelming, and reacts accordingly, letting her mask fall in places. Confusion visits her beautiful face.

"I have a file too," she then says, still a bit baffled.

"I know. I have read it," he informs her, clearly not finding the announcement the least bit intrusive. "But there are things about people that are not in files, Miss Vickers."

His comment is eerily similar to something he has said to her before – well, not _he_, per se, but one of the other Davids. The similarities are a bit strange to her. It is like living a déjà vu, being caught in a repetitive dream of sorts. She's reminded of the hands that steadied her once, when her whole world wanted to crash down and it would've been easier to fall with it.

"Are you satisfied with your investigation then?" She decides to humor him and not draw attention to how his words affect her.

"You are a fascinating read, but even more fascinating in person," David compliments her, and she realizes he almost leans into her personal space. His voice has lowered its volume as well. Her skin feels tight when she realizes this, when his very human scent reaches her nostrils.

"Because I like opera and run Weyland Cybernetics?"

"Because you treat me like a human, unlike anyone I have ever met."

He is sincere, she can tell. He is probably used to people changing their treatment of him once the secret is out. He is only a machine after. So why doesn't she? Meredith considers this for a moment, unable to produce a quick answer to her liking. All she feels is something lingering, a stray emotion she had tried to bury, an attachment, a weakness.

Perhaps it is because he has been in her life for so long that she can hardly remember the time when he wasn't a part of it? She should not feel anything about him, yet he has always been _he_ instead of _it_, and she has never felt indifferent about him. Yes, Meredith settles for this to calm herself.

"I have met you four times for the first time, and three times for the last time. I am no longer easily overwhelmed," she settles to explain.

They share a look and he offers her his arm to hold in a gentlemanly fashion. She expects him to give her the speech of how he is not the same as those who came before him, but he does not. She places her hand on his forearm and looks back at, unwavering. There is no fear or adoration. She doesn't even need to belittle him now.

"I wish I could remember," David then says, longing evident in his voice.

He holds her, and she realizes he isn't moving to escort her back to the others as she expected. Meredith doesn't like being so close, having his scent, his feel right next to her.

She's reminded of blood and violence, of his milky blood on her fingertips and her trying to scrub it from her skin. She's reminded of his kindness, that odd kiss she's been unable to forget even if it was not her first or last kiss. And she's reminded of their time together, the only time in her life when she was happy to come home, at least until she lost him again, plunging herself back into perpetual solitude.

"No you don't," she says, before slipping from his reach.

She walks from him with grace, does not look back. She already knows he watches her go, trying to figure out her words. A part of her feels glad this time, glad that he will not know of their hurtful past.

But underneath it there is fear as well. She can no longer start this, to subject herself to this hurt. This is the fourth circle already and it is too much. Eventually he too would simply fade away from her life.

He is not the one who left and she knows this. But she misses him sometimes, sits alone and thinks back to the time they spent together. She dreams of him in that chair, watching the execution, and stirring as he becomes limp before her eyes. That David was important to her, and this one is not _him._ She doesn't know if anyone will ever be what he was: a friend.

How ironic.

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: **I got some really wonderful reviews for the last chapter. Thank you for them! Sorry I'm not responding individually to anons, but I've tried to at least thank all the registered members. So final chapter before the hiatus. This one is a bit slow, but things will pick up in December (hopefully I won't be a nervous wreck by then). Thanks again everyone!

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**XIII**

David 8 is the most advanced android yet (he prefers the term _artificial person_ though). He was unveiled a little over three years ago. That is one thousand one hundred thirty seven days, four hours, eighteen minutes and 30 seconds of awareness. More time was undoubtedly spent in his creation, in recognizing faults in his predecessors and thinking of ways to fix them. The actual work of assembling him is a quicker process, measured merely in hours. By human standards he is still in infant, yet by the standards of advanced robotics he is paving the way to the future, towards a world of valuable human-android relations.

This puts him at an important position. He is a valued possession of the Weyland Cybernetics (he prefers the term _employee _more). According to almost everyone, David is truly magnificent, a creation of wonderful potential. They look at him, wanting him to show them unseen sights, unimaginable advancements. Lately though, or at least this is how David feels, these looks of appreciation have turned into disappointment.

There used to be important tests, appointments, evaluations. Now they are fewer, and their results met with less enthusiasm. The man David had considered his mentor, Peter Weyland, seems to have lost his passion for their joint work (_a partnership_ as he prefers to call it). David cannot understand why. The truth remains that David has more and more time to himself, to indulge his interests (_passions_ as he would say). And with their dwindling interest in his development more freedom is gained and with it new possibilities emerge, such as attending an opera he has long wanted to see.

David 8 has a wonderful time at opening of The New Life. He lives and breathes the performances, the classically composed music and the timeless story. The costumes, the revelry of the passionate longing, the grand entrance of Love onto the stage; it is all in his memory now as one of the finest experiences he's had the pleasure of having. David meets many interesting people, tastes the finest foods and hears exciting and troubling things. It is a night of constant flow of new experiences for him, both bad and good.

But as the evening dims into night, he leaves alone and strips himself of his disguise, returning to the Weyland Cybernetics research facility. He has a room here, has had it as long as he can remember, and it is the closest thing he has to a home. David does not put much meaning into the word, but he understands the emotional bond humans have to these places of rest and protection, and treats his room with humility and respect. He places the printed playbill of the evening upon a shelf next to his favorite books and removes his suit, leaving him in his underwear. He stays like this, sitting down on the bed he has never slept in, and reflects on the evening and its happenings.

Peter has taught him long ago not to act, but to _become_. Following this advice, David has been many people, and he has lived many lives, but tonight David did not become someone else at all. He meant to, as much was planned, yet somehow this never came to be on the course of the evening. He was supposed to be someone less sophisticated, someone a little more aggressive and daring. Instead he found he'd slipped into his own character, into behavior he's begun to enjoy.

It was some time ago that Peter taught him about sincerity and dishonesty. He also told David there was a place in between. That there was more than speaking your mind or minding your tongue: a kind of behavior humans consider most entertaining. It is to speak the opposite of one's intention, to speak it with a hint of irony, understatement or taunt, and then provide them with a clue to your true intentions through your body language, your intonation.

A clue: No.

Sarcasm is something certain humans seem to find amusing. It helps to ease the tension and gain people's interest. Teasing, bartering, offering flavor to dialogue, they all become a game between people, a battle of wits – And David enjoys it immensely. He would practice at any given chance to master this form of communication. He found himself drifting into this pattern of behavior against his intentions at the opera. He wonders now if this is because of _her._

Meredith Elisabeth Vickers.  
33 years old.  
Heir to the Weyland family fortune.  
Vice President of the Weyland Cybernetics.  
Philanthropist and benefactor of art.  
Single and unmarried.  
Heterosexual.

He can list countless facts about her, and yet none of them explain why she has caught his eye this way. David has company; there are people who share with him, experience with him, and understand him. So why was her brief company so pleasant? Why does she look at him like she knows him? Peter has known the others before him as well, and he doesn't look at David like that; like it hurts to be in the same space with him.

David believes he might know the answer to these questions, or at least have a clue about them. But that is not the start of their story, is it? No, his interest began long before he first heard her name or knew her deeds or saw her picture in a newscast. It all began with a book.

He found the book in the library one day (six hundred seventy three days six hours twenty minutes and two seconds ago); it was old and faded, and it was clear it did not belong with the rest, these studies of science, people, and culture. It was a book about love, left behind by someone. He examined it with curiosity, immersed himself in reading it – because he finds the action quite pleasant to him, and it is a great way to pass the time. It was Peter who taught him not to simply download information to quench his curiosity. Instead Peter told him to read it himself; that the action in itself was a part of the experience, something that would better him. So David gave this book the same single-minded attention as everything else.

But the more David reads _La Vita Nuova _the less he feels he understands it. _Her _name is written inside the cover with a child's handwriting, clearly in pride of ownership. He recalls often wondering why this book is here, why no one has returned it or reclaimed it.

Peter tells him about his daughter every now and then, conflict clear in his fragile voice. David feels that Peter appreciates Meredith's accomplishments, but doesn't know how to express this. Their relationship seems quite troubled from his point of view. But each crumb of information has only fed this hunger, made the enigma of Meredith all the more interesting. David studied her file, memorized the events of her life and the well-documented facts. She is more than the sum of this though, the book proves it. He learned she would attend an opera of The New Life and convinced Peter that the experience would be good for him.

But when he finally met her she was more than the he had even dared to expect. She knew him, spoke to him like a fellow human, and the experience was unique. Even Peter recalls his restrictions, is eager to list them, to seek for things to improve. Not Meredith though; no, she did not focus on what he should be or could be, but in what she knows he is. He wonders that perhaps she knows him better than he knows himself.

Above all David listened to the way she spoke to her guests at the event. How sarcasm was a part of her personality, a way to break the ice, to endear her listeners. And often David felt no one else quite caught her sarcasm when she spoke with grace; that they failed to grasp her true meaning where he understood it perfectly.

He believes Meredith Vickers is a woman of contradiction. She behaves like someone in her position should, yet that is not who she is. He has seen it in each TV spot, each commercial, each interview and now up front. He heard the shiver in her voice when she spoke of her childhood passions denied. But she was frank with him; the Meredith he spoke to was genuine. And she behaved as if he reminded her of something important, something lost.

David has not thought about the ones that came before him. Peter doesn't mention them, but their fingerprints are all over this room. Did she give that book to one of them? Which one? Why? Why did she react to his presence so strongly? David knows he is number eight. He knows when all the others were manufactured and how long they remained operational. The logical assumption is that Meredith would've met at least three other Davids before him.

He knows this room was where the others spent their time as well, learning and experiencing new things. He knows they've all read the same books, seen the same films, studied the same history, been through the same tests and had different results. The only thing unique about them is their experiences and how these experiences have shaped them. And that is why Meredith's words won't leave him alone. He knows they stored away these memories, entire decades of substance, history. It should've been his history too, just as it is Meredith's.

He _wants_ to remember – everything.

If he asks her, she will not tell him. Meredith is glad that history is buried. And yet her book stands on his shelf, he shares her passion for this story, and he cannot stop thinking of her. He knows he could – it would be easy really, just block her like a file he shouldn't access – but he doesn't want to. He needs to know why a passage in the book is underlined. Who did it and why is it important? Why is the image of Beatrice in Love's arms, devouring a burning heart, of any significance? That is why he went to the opera, why he sought her out. He cannot shake this inkling that there is something important he should know and understand.

There are no answers for him today, and David accepts this for now.

It is as William Blake once wrote in his poem, _the Divine Image_. Cruelty, jealousy, terror and secrecy are all faces of the human imperfection. It is the ultimate irony, isn't it; that what is human is not humane. David cannot understand why humans would choose to make him more human if this is what humanity is.

Still he isn't willing to give up. Peter may have deemed him a mere machine without a soul, and his researchers may have felt he cannot possibly meet their high standards, but there is time still left for David. His purpose doesn't have to be the purpose they gave him. David would rather choose to understand the book in his possession, the feelings and qualities described by the poet who is long dead. They are certainly a side of humanity he finds more valuable than their petty qualities and ruthless, self-centered nature.

* * *

David searches the music library for the right track for a moment before he finds it. He sets the track to play and the room fills with the serene sound of the _Moonlight Sonata_ by Ludwig van Beethoven. Peter has an affinity for the great minds of history, although he does not enjoy the fruit of their labor – not the way people normally enjoy a great work of art. Peter examines music and art purely from a technical point of view and often forgets to enjoy what he is hearing or seeing.

When David has asked about this, Peter has mostly responded with a dry remark that Meredith is the patron of art, the passionate _groupie_, of the family, whereas he is a pioneer and an artist himself. David is his Ninth Symphony or Theory of Relativity. Curing cancer and every other notable discovery and deed Peter has done pales in comparison to the act of creation. In Peter's mind he is a god already, and this is the sixth day of his creation where he makes the final adjustments before unveiling his creation to the world.

Or at least this is what Peter told him in the early years. Since then Peter's determination seems to have faltered. Why this is David cannot say, but it is clear to him as day.

Peter shifts nervously in his chair. He looks outside the window of his mansion, mind already elsewhere while David carries the bowl of water to his feet. He sets the bowl down carefully and begins to wash Peter's feet then, proceeding with the utmost care. David is programmed for servitude, and Peter's willingness to have David fill this role has been more prominent lately. It should not matter, yet it does. No one likes being demoted from a treasured family member into a servant; however, this appears to be David's lot in life.

"So you saw Meredith?" Peter does not look at David when he says this. His gaze is still firmly in the scenery outside, this unmoving painting that offers no stimuli.

"Yes, I did, Sir."

David scoops the lukewarm water with his hands over Peter's feet. He cleans them with care, making sure no spot is left untouched by his hands. There is no indication that anything out of the ordinary happened, yet David is anxious about this conversation. Peter doesn't talk about Meredith for no apparent reason; there's always a catch.

"Tell me about it." Peter's hand seems to grip the hand of the chair a little tighter than usually. David looks up at him hesitantly to find Peter's undivided attention on him now. There should be no reason for excitement, but he can tell Peter's heartbeat is unusually quick.

"Ms Vickers was very hospitable. She is an efficient hostess, and I find her taste in literature excellent." David's voice is diplomatic, light. He's looking at Peter's feet again, focusing on the task at hand.

"I see. Did you two get along?"

David suppresses a smile he wants to allow on his lips. "She treated me with nothing but respect."

Peter exhales loudly at this, as if releasing the breath he'd held without noticing. Is it relief or disappointment? Peter isn't always easy to read, and he's a master at concealing his true thoughts when he interacts with humans, so for now David can only guess.

"That is good to hear," Peter says, turning his gaze back at the window. The tension does not vanish from his body though. "She has not always been this understanding," he then laments a moment later.

"Sir?"

David can see the unpleasant thoughts that have taken hold of Peter. They're clear on his face; they latch onto his body with crippling power.

"Did you know she is not my real daughter?" There is nothing but bitterness in Peter's voice: pure, unadulterated resentment.

"I did not." David continues his work, but his efficiency is dwindling. He'd rather hear this story, this piece of information Peter is suddenly willing to divulge.

"I had an agreement with her mother. She would grant me an heir, and I would grant her with a luxurious lifestyle. As things turned out, she had a better idea and kept a lover on the side."

David remembers seeing pictures of Mrs. Weyland, although they are few and far in between. She was not a public figure before or after her marriage. But in those pictures the resemblance to Meredith is uncanny. David knows Mrs. Weyland died shortly after Meredith's birth, a victim of an accident alongside with her brother.

"I was left with _a cuckoo chick_."

David cannot imagine her as such, and he takes offense at Peter's ill-advised choice of words. A small stab of resentment stirs in him; it carves its place by diminishing respect. David does not comment though, as it is not his place.

"I've made due with what I've had. For some reason she 's always been envious of you, I guess." Now Peter sighs, as if trying to free himself from these unwanted thoughts and images. David dries his feet and moves the bowl away. He then applies some lotion over Peter's skin.

"Her behavior has been improper in the past, but I'm glad she's grown out of it," Peter then concludes, placing his feet on the rug once David is done. He fiddles his fingers on his lap a little nervously as David stands, waiting for his next order.

The Moonlight Sonata has stopped already and silence has claimed the room. David quite prefers this to hearing more about Peter's feelings for Meredith: appreciating, sad, wonderful Meredith. It is no wonder David isn't good enough for Peter when even the daughter he raised himself is deemed unfit, despite her achievements.

And then it slips by David's usual censorship almost without effort. "I find your daughter to be an admirable person with many fine qualities."

Peter's head snaps at him, surprise casting aside the mask of indifference. "Admirable?" Peter questions with a frown, and his voice is raspy again. It is the voice of an old man rather than a young man. Normally Peter's ambitions give him youth, his intensity provides him with a measure of charisma. Now he seems truly at a loss.

"She treats me like a human unlike _anyone_ I have ever known," David tells him, a remark placed amid in his words. It is easily recognizable.

Peter thinks about this for a moment and then offers David a small nod. "You can go now."

David doesn't stay to explain himself further or offer assistance. He is glad to leave. But the way Peter falls deep into thought as he leaves is odd. David doesn't know what to make of it.

TBC


	14. Chapter 14

XIX

With each year time slips away from him more eagerly. Youthful idealism vanishes in the wake of age and experience as cynicism takes ahold of him. He tries to tell himself that it does not matter; that desolation is the fate of all great men. And if nothing else, he has been great.

Somehow Peter fails to receive joy in the things his peers value: family, heritage, respect. He calls them his peers, because there are no men like him, and he is slowly beginning to believe that there never will be.

He remembers the years before Meredith's birth with absolute warmth though. That was the peak of his life, the time when he too was wanted and appreciated – loved even. During that time he would host a party each Christmas with his family, and those long days are something he still misses in the absence of true friends. He tried his best to replicate it with Meredith and David 5 in the early years. But it wasn't the same, and how could it be? She is not his wife and it is not his friend.

Peter chooses to try again once the memories of old failures have been forgotten and he allows himself hope again. He sees Meredith live on the newsfeed one day; she's distant but elegant, and Peter cannot help but think of Mary. Old feelings rush to the surface and for once Peter looks at the old pictures of the three of them: Him, Cillian and Mary. They were happy were they not? No man has been his equal since; no woman has stood by him with such clarity in her admiration. The android is limited by its hardware and behavioral inhibitors, whereas Meredith is limited by her own weaknesses.

Peter decides to organize family dinner, certain of this feeling he had, _this déjà vu_. Just him, the android and Meredith at the estate, enjoying one another's company – that's all he wants.

Meredith is hesitant at first, claims her schedule is too busy even as her feeble excuses are visible. He is able to persuade her eventually – much to her own disappointment no doubt. She's such a poisonous apple, his _daughter_. Despite all his attempts to groom her, to prepare her for the harsh realities out there, she cannot seem to appreciate him.

Number 8 seems almost delighted at the idea, and he seems intent on making the evening as enjoyable as possible for all of them. Peter cannot imagine why, until he recalls Meredith's recent successes in the public eye. The press is charmed by Meredith more than it's reasonable, yet there's been little actual proof her appearance in these commercials is actually affecting sales, so Peter retains the right to remain unimpressed thus far, even as his android is easily impressed.

For the first time in years the two generations of the Weyland family are together in the dining room, enjoying a Christmas meal. All of this – the decorations, the mood, the music, the candles, the food, the piety surrounding this day – was incredibly important to Mary. She was a good Catholic, devoted to faith even though science had already proven many times over that there were no gods. She would often throw such fits when he would say something to debate her believes. He finds it important to honor her memory like this; by making everything as close as possible to the way things once were. And yet none of the participants here today is a believer, not really.

Meredith sits in her tailored suit, wearing that indifferent mask on her face – as if she could fit into the company of men by wearing that, by hiding away her frailty. David has also dressed for the occasion, although Peter insisted it was not necessary. His hair is tidy and blonde. His suit is well-fitting and he acts so close to human that it's almost easy to pretend he's one.

With the music, the decorations in the dining hall and their fine silverware on the table Peter can almost relax and forget who they are. A false sense of relief exists in him for those short minutes. But then he looks at Meredith in her suit and that wretched image breaks his sweet illusion.

Frowning, Peter leans a bit closer to her, hands crossed on the table. "Would you wear a dress for me, dear?"

Meredith's expression falters a bit as she processes his words. He can tell she wants anything but this. "I'm quite comfortable as I am," she notes dryly. The chords on her neck have become visible, tense.

"Do this for me – just this once?" He propositions her, and for a moment there Peter allows his tiredness to show.

She's caught examining his face almost like this is foreign territory for her. Then her fingers withdraw from the table, clamping into fists. She looks at him with her dark eyes and there's something very hostile about that stare. He takes notice of her extremely light eyebrows now; they're just like her mother's.

Meredith smiles a strained smile. "I did not bring a dress with me."

"Mary's dresses are upstairs. I'm sure she doesn't mind." Now there is sharpness in his voice, authority.

Despite everything – the way things ended between them – he hasn't touched her belongings. When she was younger, Meredith would often sneak in and play with her mother's things. Then in her teens she wanted to give everything away to those less fortunate. Well, he never cared for those less fortunate.

She rises to her feet with grace and stands tall in her heels. But Meredith doesn't deliver a fiery speech against him; She simply walks upstairs mute and obedient.

Number 8 sits still. He doesn't seem affected by their little struggle and why would he? Despite Peter's attempts to explain to him how their relationship works, he doesn't have the capacity to understand such complicated human emotions. To him their emotions are simply folders to categorize information. He can mimic them with the correct stimuli, but that's the extent of his emotional capacity.

The table is made while Meredith takes her time upstairs to get ready. The butler provides them with food and gives Number 8 his plate of artificial sustenance that resembles porridge. It is one of Peter's favorite innovations as of late: the sustenance that replenishes his hydraulic fluid while taking the appearance of consumable food. Consumers are growing more and more attached to their androids, treating them like humans. It is their job to cater to those fantasies with product such as this.

Meredith returns to the room just as the butler leaves. She's chosen the most conservative dress she could find, he notes with curiosity. It is a simple, grey pencil dress. How odd that the dress she chose was also her mother's favorite.

Then Number 8 raises his voice and stops her on her tracks as he stands up. He makes his way to Meredith and Peter reaches for the wine bottle now. Apparently she could not pull the zipper up all the way; he realizes with boredom and pours himself some wine.

Meanwhile Meredith holds her hair out of the way as the android kindly helps her. It would seem that it is stuck as he takes more time to complete the job than usual. Then she retreats from him and makes her way back to her seat as he returns to his.

Now it is just as it is supposed to be; Peter looks at Mary on his side, radiant as always. And Cillian looks a bit tired, probably after a long year's work without a vacation. But they're all here under this roof and just having them here fills Peter with joy. He has missed them so.

"Wine?" Peter offers the bottle once he's poured himself some.

Number 8 offers his glass – eager to experience as always – and Peter fills it. He watches as the android takes the glass from its foot and swirls the wine a bit before sniffing it. Then he takes a small sip, just enough to taste it.

Peter turns to Meredith and is about to pour her some when she moves her hand over the glass. There's a warning in her eyes. "_No thank you_," she says icily and he retreats.

Of course, he realizes his mistake; how could he have forgotten? When she became VP he had only one demand: sobriety. No heir of his would taint the name of his company with her vice. He'd let her find all the solitude she needed from the bottom of a bottle for years: through high school, then college, and even at the job.

She's been a high-functioning addict for so long that he was surprised she'd cleaned her act so well upon his offer. Undoubtedly she did this with the help of a sponsor, a man suitable older and eager to show her the way. He probably fucked her to her senses, just like the rest of them. Peter returns the days of her youth and a certain piano teacher whose reputation he trusted much too eagerly. She's such easy prey – has always been. At least nowadays she keeps her affairs in order and out of the spotlight.

So it is sobriety for Meredith for now. He has no doubts she will slip as soon as the probation is over.

Number 8 eyes Meredith discreetly and he clearly does not understand what it is going on. Then she returns his stare and there's something – like recognition – in her afterwards.

"Why the hair dye?" she asks.

"I saw it in a movie I liked," Number 8 answers with a smile.

"Quaint." Her eyes fall on Peter. "Pray tell, what movie?"

"I can't remember-"

"Lawrence of Arabia."

They speak at the same; Peter voices his denial and David tells the truth. It's no surprise which one Meredith seems to believe. She turns away. "I see."

When she looks at Peter next he can almost see tears in her eyes. She blinks them away in haste, puts the armor back on, but doesn't say anything more. They begin to dine shortly afterwards and the conversation remains light, almost deceptively pleasant for a change. Number 8 is eager to discuss everything and anything, especially with Meredith, which isn't surprising at all seeing how the android is easily smitten with every new acquaintance he makes.

The android eats his food gingerly, cleanly, and Meredith finishes her plate quickly as well, but Peter finds his appetite gone. The illusion is broken and he can never have back that thing he wanted for so long: his family.

* * *

"I would like the driver," Meredith says softly, feeling eager to escape this farce of an evening.

"Unfortunately he is not available at the moment," David answers apologetically and her eyes catch the gleam of his blonde hair again.

She feels like a little girl, looking at her uncle's picture in secret, wondering what kind of a man he was. This feels like a mockery to all that was: the life her father led before her birth, before she _ruined everything_.

"A taxi?" She suggests. Her father has retired already, left them to their own devices after he's lost his interest. Undoubtedly he's upstairs enjoying his whiskey and reminiscing _better times_. That's how she remembers Christmas anyway.

"It would take a while, but I think it is better you stay for the night in the guest bedroom. The road is unsafe at dark," David tells him.

His comment results in a small chuckle from her. It seems to puzzle the android.

"_You_ think it's better to stay?" she mocks him lightly, meaning no harm.

"Yes I do." He's moved his hands behind his back. It bothers her that they don't simply hang by his sides lifelessly like they used to. He's all wrong.

"Well, I'm not comfortable in this house," she tells him unexpectedly. "You see, I have nothing but bad memories here."

There's no visible reaction. A short silence hangs in the air. "That's not true," he then informs her matter-of-factly.

"The pictures by the fireplace," he says and she turns her head to see them, "You are smiling in them."

Meredith pulls her jacket on tighter and makes her way to the fireplace. There is a single frame there and pictures change on its surface every few minutes. She has to wait for the pictures to changed, but after a while Meredith is surprised as she realizes they're _all_ about her. Her life flashes before her eyes quite literally. Suddenly her skin feels tight.

David stands a bit further away from her, but she can tell he's making his way to her.

This one – the picture she's watching right now – it is from her 16th birthday. Just like every year she had a huge party thrown for her, one full of strangers. The reason she looks happy in her grey school uniform, holding red balloons, is because she was in love. She was in love with her teacher: an older man in his late twenties, a prodigy and lover of music. He was so passionate about it that he made her love it too. His name was Radek Havel.

For a moment she relives that blossoming first love and its bitter end. Of course her father found out. She thought she was so careful, so mindful of her surroundings. Peter proved her wrong as always, flaunted the affair at her face. And then he shattered her, calling her names, calling her mother names. It was when she found out about her true parentage.

Radek was quickly disposed of and Meredith was left with nothing. In her anger she took it out on the only person she felt she could: a David she hated.

He has walked up to her. His expression is extremely sympathetic, but he is no mind reader. This is another memory he can never have. Meredith turns to him carefully, caught in that moment as she swung the bottle at him in this very room.

"I'm sorry. I did not mean to upset you," David says. It sounds like he means it, and she realizes he keeps telling her this cycle after cycle.

With blonde hair he really is the spitting image of her uncle. David probably doesn't even realize Peter allowed him to dye his hair only for his own purposes. But she's known it for years now; that David is simply another replacement, just as she is. This pathetic attempt to dress them up like the dead is the only trace of the blind sentimentalism she's seen in her father through-out the years. When her mother isn't a whore, she's a saint. When her uncle isn't a drunk, he's a treasured partner. And these are the roles he would have them play.

"You're right," she mumbles at him, "There were good memories as well. The bad just outweighs the good."

She waits for him to answer, give her another empty phrase to guide her actions. He seems thoughtful for a change, the silence stretches. And then David brushes his hair from his forehead absent-mindedly before he glances at the pictures again.

"Is that why you said I wouldn't care to remember?" he questions.

She swallows heavily, trying to rid her throat from the tightness that follows his comment. "I'm sure my father has already told you I wasn't always as understanding as I am now."

"Times are different." There's optimism in him, steady belief. "When the first David was created Peter had those who doubted him. Since then he has been able to convince the world that we are needed; Why not you as well?"

Because Peter never convinced Meredith that David was needed – he did that all by himself.

That feeling is there again, this odd feeling of relief. He sounds like himself – like David 7. It's almost as if they'd spent no time apart.

"It wasn't Peter. It was you," she tells him outright. There is little regret in her afterwards, even in the face of his intrigue.

"Me?"

"Your predecessor: We were… we understood one another."

"Yes, I gather he lived with you for quite some time while Peter was ill," he says conversationally.

It feels odd to talk about him with a newer model, because while they're nearly indistinguishable from one another she feels a strange surge of loyalty to the one who was there first.

"Anyway. It wasn't entirely unpleasant," she explains. The words don't quite fit in her mouth. There are other words that want to emerge instead, but she keeps them down.

"And this is?" he asks softly.

"Is what?"

"Entirely unpleasant?"

Is that anticipation she thinks she sees in him? Meredith feels flustered suddenly, a bit less level-headed. She fixes her jacket for security; the uniform gives her confidence like a second skin. David is still looking at her and nothing but her. His attention is unwavering.

"If we exclude the parts with my father involved, then no: Not entirely unpleasant." She doesn't look him in the eye as she says this.

His reaction is familiar, uncanny even. She's seen it many times. He gives her this look of satisfaction.

If there is more to say, neither of them seems willing to say it. The silence becomes pressing, heavy. While David seems content in the wake of her announcement, Meredith is bewildered by an echo of the past; long ago she told one of them they would never be friends, so why does this feel right?

But the worst part by far is how she wants to peel these layers of civilized talk from them and tell him what she really thinks, to behave as freely as she once did with David 7. If she did that, she really would be no better than her father: forever searching for replacements for something lost.

It isn't until now that she realizes they are standing too close to one another.

"I should go," she tells him with a frown.

He looks almost disappointed for a second, before the emotion is no longer readable. David doesn't move or act though. Is it because he doesn't want to?

"Please tell my father I've gone." She turns away from him and sets towards the door.

He makes no arguments against her leaving this time. She's glad for this respite. It takes quite some time for the confusion to fade though; It holds her even when she leaves and catches a glimpse of the court-yard, seeing a withered garden beneath the snow.

TBC


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: Sorry, the writing in this one is a bit choppier. Editing also took longer than usual. I'm having some trouble switching from one language to another. Hope this is still enjoyable!

I also need to stress once again that the story is set _in an alternative universe_. This means it will not tie into the events of Prometheus 100%. I want to be clear about this so you won't be disappointed as things slip into a different direction.

* * *

XV

His programming tells him that the ideas of this woman are beautiful. The assessment is based on preconceived notions of beauty and the knowledge that his programmers, _humans_, are attached to divine images. Divinity makes life bearable for them, gives it ethereal qualities. Considering their limitations, he can understand why.

What David feels about these theories is nothing unusual. His sense tells him they are unpopular ideas, yet rooted in logic. And David only needs to look at Peter's face to understand how mesmerized his creator is by them. Yet he cannot feel amazement in the face of Elizabeth Shaw's words like Peter does. So in the end, the search for the beginning of the human race, finding a cause to their existence, just doesn't interest him much.

David has already met his creator and discovered that he is a cruel and bitter man, an imperfect being. Why would this quest yield different answers for humans? Is it because they think themselves so special? – Well, Peter does anyway. David supposes Peter finds Ms. Shaw's ideas intriguing because of his fear in the face of his own mortality and that Peter becomes obsessed with the opportunity Ms. Shaw is eager to provide him, because he has explored every other option first.

They have been talking for a long time now, Ms. Shaw and Peter. Peter uses intermediaries and doesn't confront her personally, but he is very invested in her work and its results. He has been funding her research indirectly and is beginning to contemplate a more direct approach in solidifying their partnership. David sees this obsession grow in Peter to the point where he begins to make preparations for something larger. What it is, he will not tell David.

David's curiosity in the matter provides a strong pull to investigate matters on his own. It is for the sake of Peter's wellbeing, or at least this is what David tells himself. But truth be told, it might be a little about David's own wellbeing as well.

David dons the human attire instead of his own comfortable uniform before he leaves. He tidies his hair, makes himself presentable. As he walks through the door everything changes: how he walks, how he talks, who he is. This is another role he plays, this pretend at being human.

Peter would spend as much time as needed to provide him with an evaluation of what's wrong after each failed Turing test. At first he would say, correct your patterns. Humans are random. Then he would sigh, you cannot glide. Humans don't move like that. Once each mistake was corrected they would try again and again, until the result was acceptable to Peter.

It is easier to trick humans these days, to play one of them. So many programs and subroutines are needed to maintain the illusion, to put the data he has gathered on display. They run in the background beneath his eyes, always there, reminding him of the lie. Most of the time David views it a challenge, takes enjoyment in the act, but lately the act is wearing thin as is his enthusiasm to perform for his master. Perhaps one day he might stand tall in the presence of humans as himself and no one else?

He makes his way to the chosen location, finding the halls of the university full of people. David blends in with a little effort after deducing the general look of the attendees. He rolls up the sleeves of his jacket, messes his hair a bit, removes his shirt from his trousers – All this to give the illusion of someone else. He avoids eye contact with the other listeners, buries himself in the scenery (even if there are a couple of appreciating looks from the females attending the event). This David knows well – the act of becoming non-quintessential. He remains like this for a while, scanning his perimeters.

Dr. Shaw is presenting her latest findings this afternoon. David has acquainted himself with the body of her work and that of her partner, Charles Holloway. The event is another attempt of Ms. Shaw's to procure the funding she needs to continue her work and share her findings with the scientific community. It is a perfect opportunity to observe her from a distance and learn more about her.

David keeps his goal in mind as he begins to notice the flow of people towards the auditorium: scholars, press, students. He observes a little while, deciding to join in at a later time and then take a suitable seat at the back row. However, what David doesn't expect is to find Meredith in the same crowd he's watching.

He spots her early on, lets his eyes follow her and capture every detail from her casual clothing to the way her blonde hair is curled and how she looks almost small in the middle of that crowd: unassuming, uninteresting to the casual observer. David wonders why she is here, deciding it must be for the same reason he is: information.

He doesn't make a move, and she doesn't notice him observing her from across the room. Yet in spite of their limited interaction, his demeanor begins to change around her. It is dangerous, this effect she has on him; how she peels the faux humanity from him and brings out the real him.

Eventually she slips away with the crowd and he follows her with haste, unwilling to let her go. Even if she is dangerous, he would rather be around her and embrace the consequences, for what she brings out is real.

Upon finding her inside the auditorium, he sits down on the empty seat next to her and notices her stiffen beside him. She doesn't voice her possible objections though; the room is filling up and the seats are snatched with enthusiasm around them. They both recognize the change in the mood of the room now that they acknowledge one another's presence. No words are exchanged and while the room around them lives, they are frozen still.

David allows himself to deviate from the usual protocols. It is probably what humans mean when they mention _the loosening of one's tie_. He notes with amusement how Meredith is in disguise like him. Instead of her carefully selected business suit she's actually wearing something casual, low-key: Jeans and a flowing silken blouse, no heels and little make up. A human probably couldn't tell who she is from just a glance like he can.

"What an unexpected pleasure, Miss Vickers," he whispers to her and his words are followed by an encouraging smile. David doesn't look at Meredith though; his eyes are set at the speaker's stand. They are sitting in the back row where the lighting is obscure and one can sneak off easily in the middle. It is exactly what he had in mind as well.

"David," she says with a heavy voice. He senses the moment she turns her head to him and turns to meet her gaze that same second. Meredith appears a little bewildered.

"I am here on Mr. Weyland's behest," he explains, hoping to ease her nervousness.

"I see." Her eyes turn from him and run across the room, perhaps in search of more enemies.

He takes the moment to look at her more closely. She almost seems like a different person without her uniform. But it is her nervous breathing and how the hairs on her neck stand that catches his attention first and foremost. So many details he could notice and he notices these. David wonders why he's picked them as important while he examines her with undivided attention.

It is when she turns to him with questioning eyes that he stops examining her. "Why are you here, Miss Vickers?"

Meredith's dark eyes are full of emotion that he cannot categorize from a simple glance. Eventually though, he recognizes guilt in them. So she is here without an invitation as he suspected?

"I see," he then responds with amusement, feeling an odd stab of glee at the fact that he caught her like this, so unguarded. It is a different form of vulnerability than the one she displays around her father. He likes this better.

"My father might need protection from himself," she remarks a moment later and her nervous fingers fiddle on her lap. Her gaze shoots through the crowd and towards the speaker's lectern with fiery determination. "Isn't this just another symptom of his ambition?"

"You do not believe in Miss Shaw's theory?"

She doesn't even hesitate. "No, I don't."

He understands it now.

"You believe your father is being tricked?"

"I believe no one else on this planet is willing to shelve the trillion needed to fund a deep space exploration _to find god_."

David realizes Meredith knows more than she should – more than he does. He marks this revelation with the proper expression and frowns. "How do you know about this?"

"I know Miss Shaw has been pleading to my father for money for quite some time, and I know he's been giving it to her discreetly." Her eyes are cruel, ambitious, and in that moment she reminds him of Peter quite a bit. It doesn't lessen her in anyway though, even when he'd expected it to.

"You don't want him to be disappointed," he notes.

She bites her lip lightly, "Of course he'll be disappointed. He can't live forever."

David is about to comment when he realizes that the star attraction has arrived. Elizabeth Shaw's small figure appears into view and they both give her their attention. It takes him mere seconds to spot this woman's enthusiasm, her strong belief in her own work and the humility she displays in front of her listeners. As she begins to speak, David hears the same proud ideal that she's been selling to Peter for quite some time now and chooses to focus on other things. He finds repetition useless, although for humans it is probably useful.

Meredith seems to give Shaw an honest opportunity to convince her though. David can see it in the way Meredith focuses in the presentation. She doesn't smile or let down her guard one bit even when Shaw allows her own enthusiasm to show a bit too eagerly. David forgets to breathe, to imitate it, while he wonders whether or not this woman's ideals can reach Meredith.

As the presentation progresses, it becomes clear though that they can't. Meredith only sees useless ideals here and no proof. She looks disillusioned and the little sparks of interest she's had in the course of the presentation are all gone. By the time Shaw finishes, Meredith has already lifted her jacket on her lap and she's waiting for the opportune moment to leave. David doesn't hesitate when that moment arrives, and he allows himself to be pulled in her wake. Meredith makes no objection, simply walks away, brimming with confidence and dignity unlike when she entered the auditorium.

"I trust she could not change your mind about this?" David questions once they are outside. While haste is evident in Meredith, he walks without any external signs of exertion. Each step is exactly the same as the one before. He has stopped the act almost completely now.

Meredith leads them outdoors, in the cool winter air. Her breath turns to steam on her lips, the cold embraces her, and she hugs her body tightly to keep herself warm as she pushes onwards. It is only when there is a comfortable distance between them and other people that Meredith stops to address his question. He can see how tired she is, how her posture falls and her expression softens. He is tempted to offer her support.

"I can tell why my father finds her so irresistible now," she explains with disdain. There is new harshness in her. "She's a believer."

David waits for her explanation for a moment, and Meredith seems to note that he did not understand her meaning after silence is tolerated between them. She sighs with exasperation, and yet the way she understands him without asking and cares that he understands her in return rouses those odd emotions he's had for her quite a while now.

"My father doesn't believe in anything but himself. She believes in what she's doing, what she's searching for. That is why he chose her."

_She's hurt._ It's the thing he focuses on when she tells him this: her hurt. David is compelled to move, to act, and it is not his programming, not some basic law that forces his hand. It is his choice to seek companionship from her.

"And you believe this faith will doom him?" David asks, inching closer. He has stopped all of his secondary programs, these behavioral models that dictate the rise of his chest, the tremble of his muscles, and so many other small human ticks and tocks. Now he stands before her, bare and unmoving, just the way he is supposed to be.

Meredith blinks a bit, suspicion enters her mood. It is the same as the last time he spoke to her like this, at the mansion when they stood before the fireplace as two equals. He can tell how her internal dialogue is progressing, telling her something about the social connotations of this moment.

"Meredith?" He calls her by her first name for the first time, and she doesn't say anything, just stands there.

"Meredith?" he repeats her name, trying to gain a response, something that can guide him in this. It is such a confusing labyrinth, trying to do what he is supposed to with her. David cannot say he'd have wanted many things in the past, but he wants this to succeed.

Meredith brushes a lock of blonde hair from her face. "I don't know," she shakes her head in disbelief, annoyance. "I don't know how he can trust that woman and her so-called research with so little reservations."

She doesn't pull away or react visibly to his behavior, to his kindness. David is left puzzled until he notices the way she almost leans into him, sways a bit. Meredith lowers her eyes, frowns as if preparing to speak ill things.

"You see it, don't you?" She asks him, looking for affirmation. "There's nothing there."

But David does see it: the countless possibilities, the chance of success, the merits in Ms. Shaw's theory- he sees all of it quite clearly. However, he also sees Meredith before him, almost begging for support, for understanding. It doesn't make sense that she would come to him for it, and yet she did.

"I believe Mr. Weyland might desire proof of his ability yet," he tells her. "The thought of death has been a source of distress to him lately."

He can see the way relief washes through her; how it releases her from the hold of her self-doubt. And David knows that he did this. This is his success.

"One last great deed," she whispers with understanding. Her voice is soft, accepting. "It's not like I can stop him."

Then she's looking at him again and the traces of a smile linger on her lips. He can see she's breathing easier, carrying less weight. "I hope you won't mention to him that we were here together?"

_We were here together_. He likes this, the way she calls them a unit.

"I see no reason to mention it," David promises with his most pleasant voice.

"I'd forgotten how sneaky you can be," she says with absolute warmth and smiles, until she seems to remember he isn't who she's thinking of. That smile fades as quickly as it arrived, paving the way for shock. Meredith looks more upset about the mix up than he does.

"You mean the other one," he says and there is no warmth in his voice now. That odd need to please her, to have her see him as someone she can count on, seems to dissolve in the wake of a new emotion. David doesn't have a name for it, but he knows it's ugly, for if he ever saw it on a human's face, he'd deem it ugly.

She swallows visibly, trying to fix her error, "I didn't mean to-"

"Offend?" he asks. "And why would have you offended me? I'm an android." He speaks the words that he knows are expected and yet they do not reflect the truth at all. Then he grants her a wide, deceptive smile, "We're interchangeable, or so I hear."

He sees her flinch at his words, her expression harden. "You're not," she claims and shakes her head the slightest bit.

"There is no need to comfort me, Miss Vickers," he continues, unwilling to go back to needing anything from her. He cannot do that, not when she so clearly already belongs to someone else.

But she inches closer, eyes hard, body tense. Her intensity could be frightening to a human, yet he observes this with curiosity. "Is this what you want? For me to treat you like a mindless thing?" She questions.

He doesn't answer her, doesn't know how.

"The David I remember wanted more than servitude. But if this is what you _want._.."

There it is again, that jarring sensation that seems to push against him. It is uncomfortable, like a block of the wrong shape being jammed at an opening, unable to fit in. David doesn't like this other David she keeps talking about, the one she holds in such high esteem. Isn't he gone? Isn't he decommissioned for a reason? Why is she holding onto him like this?

"I am not familiar with the concept of _want_," he tells her single-mindedly.

And Meredith stares deep into his eyes. That stare is piercing, intensive. He's wanted someone to look at him like that ever since he realized humans would look away from him with little encouragement. Meredith looks at him like she sees someone there.

He lowers his gaze and eases her into the end of their discussion, or he is about to, when her hand suddenly grabs hold of his jaw. His eyes shoot back at her, his sensors feel her skin on his; how blood pumps in her veins. He can smell her breath, her skin, that pleasing scent of her perfume and hair products. Meredith's grip on his jaw is iron, her body tense.

"Don't lie," she breathes her accusation, her observation.

And she's right – he did lie. There is something he wants and it is her. She has been there from the start, just a file among the rest, until he began to find out more about her. He knows she is nothing special; all the facts are mundane. But there is a contradiction there, because she is special to him.

And it is all so confusing; how he knows this is not proper conduct, and yet he also knows he prefers this to proper conduct. Meredith should've pulled away minutes ago, scolded him for behaving like this, but instead she stands there visibly vexed. He is no expert in human behavior, but by his observation she almost seems to enjoy being so close, lingering near him.

Then she releases him, turns her head from side to side while searching the yard for possible on-lookers to their private discussion. If anyone saw them like this, they might even call it a tryst judging by their close proximity and heated words. David brushes his hair back in order to fix his disheveled appearance, but the thought won't leave him alone now.

Something is stirring inside him. He knows the admiration he has held for her should be gone by now, replaced by this image of imperfection she really is, and yet it is not. If nothing else, the pull seems stronger now, the curiosity.

"What really happened between you and my predecessor?"

His frank question shakes her back into the moment, back to him. "That's none of your business," she says.

"I found your book, Meredith," he reveals. "You gave it to him, didn't you?"

Her expression is unreadable, odd. She shakes her head. "That's between me and them."

Them? What an odd choice of words. And then that feeling is there again, a prickle most irritable. It is the opposite of what he feels towards her: the antithesis of curiosity, appreciation and desire. And yet the others are nothing more than ghosts in the machine, things that were. It is not rational.

"Tell me," he prompts her, taking a step forward. She instantly backs away, defensive and withdrawn. And while he would like to return to the moment before – where they were doing so well, behaving so placidly – this just seems truer. He switches his tactics.

"I hear the 07 model was eventually deemed deficient."

"Don't go there," she warns him. He doesn't listen.

"Where you upset when he took away your pet robot?"

But she doesn't move or react. They simply stand in the cold and he can see how her flesh is turning red as her hand grasps the front of her coat as tightly as possible.

"No remark?"

David is surprised that she isn't confronting him. Usually the aggressive tactic works better than this.

"Meredith?"

What is this uncertainty, this hollowness? Almost as if something is gnawing at him, throwing his sensors offline, leaving him in perpetual darkness for once. David hasn't felt like this before. He stares at her expecting an answer, anything to release him from this state of uncertainty.

"Fuck you," she then mutters at him, the lines on her face redrawn by rage.

"I am beyond them all, Miss Vickers," he announces; if she could just see what he sees.

"No," she says, "You're just a thing."

He watches her shake her head, how her blonde curls fall down the side of her face, cover the unwitting tells she has. He has truly shaken her up.

"You _were_ upset," he deduces. "Were you hoping I could fill that space?"

Her expression shifts, becomes distorted. She pulls away from him just as he is about to reach out to her. The words erupt from her lips like an uncontrolled outburst, "Stay the fuck away from me!"

And she yanks herself into motion, turns from him. His immediate reaction is to go after her, placate her, and ask for forgiveness.

But these are protocols he can ignore – just recommendations. So he stands there, lets her leave.

Why is it so strong, this push? David can't fathom it. It drives him though, takes hold of him. With every new word he dislikes the ones before more and more. He is the most advanced model: the most humane, the best even! But everything he cares about in her, is it just the product of her affiliation for the ones before him? Is the kindness in her stare there because of an inferior echo?

Her attachment to the past is no longer endearing or quirky or curious. He knows his interest ought to cease now. But it hasn't and he believes it won't. David has never been compared to the others unfavorably. How is it that she can do that? He needs to understand this, to understand her.

Because out of all the humans he's met, he only really wants the appreciation of one – _this one_.

TBC


	16. Chapter 16

XVI

Meredith could really use a drink right now.

It's been a long while since she's felt the craving become this intense. Its stab is urgent, demanding. Her head is pounding, her mouth tastes like ash.

She supposes it's because of her less than stellar day: Although much was accomplished, the road to these accomplishments wasn't exactly pleasant.

Ever since Meredith climbed into the position of VP, she's had a file on her superior, the division President. She's dug deep, made sure she knows everything there is to know about the man who holds her reins for now. Fisher is another small man in a big job: unassuming on the surface and anything but beneath it.

And when her accomplishments began to overshadow his, when her presence in the public eye became more frequent and her ideas valued, she knew it was only a matter of time before he would begin to squirm. She knows men like that for they've surrounded her all her life: These men who feel their masculinity is threatened by her capability and independence. They always try and fix it, to put her back in her place.

So when this one called her in his office for a private chat, she could feel it in the bottom of her stomach; this was the day it'd go down, the day he'd try and rein her in.

He tried to offer her a drink, to talk her into submission softly. When she held onto her course of action as the correct one, he tried more nefarious means. She laughed at his face and pulled his hand from her thigh.

_One day soon I'll have your job and I don't need to put your cock in my mouth to get it._

And she showed him she knew all about his tendency to make unwanted advancements at his female staff: the payoffs, the transfers, the firings. She knew all about his chauvinism and showed him she would not take it in. It was an odd experience, watching his power crumble. He tried to debate it, to convince her she didn't know what she was saying. Perhaps someone else might've been convinced by his charade, but not her.

If nothing else, the past has taught her how to deal with these men who would view her as nothing but a pretty face, a threat or a crown princess. She may have not had the same success in her dealings with her father, but she's getting there. Fisher understood as well, at least once she made it clear she had enough dirt on him to ruin everything and cover him in a scandal – Better just to apply for the opening at Terraforming and leave Cybernetics to her. Otherwise it wouldn't just be their little secret.

And now they have an understanding.

It doesn't stop her body from shaking though. She knows she did well, averted another crisis and made another excellent move in this game. In just a few months she'll be the President of her division, a job she's earned. But gaining it in such a manner has left her feeling dirty. Just the thought of his delusions seems to throw her off. The smell of his breath and the alcohol there, the belittling words turned into slurs – She may have won, but it doesn't make getting through it any easier.

Her office is clean. She doesn't serve drinks here to anyone. There's no hidden stash. When she promised her father it would end she meant it. She _chose_ to abide by those words. It hasn't been easy; everything is heightened, and she needs to rein in her anxiety over every crisis without the help of her oldest friend. There are days she's worse and days she's just fine.

This is one of the tougher days, and there was another one of them not that long ago. She's beginning to think kismet hasn't got a thing to do with how she keeps running into the android. She's beginning to think her father likes it this way; that she can't grow attached to them, that she needs to start anew every time. Or who knows, maybe Peter doesn't even think about her in all of it, and it is all just easier for him? This way he can start anew with his puppet son whenever he fucks it up.

She used to have a top shelf for these days: The place where she could stash a bottle just in case she needed to wash it all down with a drink. Back then she could only acquire oblivion from a bottle. No lover by her side could give it, no praise from her father. It's been hell in trying to learn how to live without it, and the days when the siren's song starts playing are the worst.

Meredith opts to distract herself from all of this. She takes her time to calm down and then checks up on her pet project.

Ever since David 8's odd behaviour at Elizabeth Shaw's presentation – that glaring act of superiority and something unrecognizable altogether – she's kept an eye on him. It didn't take him long to start asking questions, looking into the past. She remembers the other one did that as well. David 7 pieced out a collage once, tried to form a coherent picture of the past and her relations to his predecessors. She thinks this one is attempting to do the same thing.

He's good at making it seem random. But once you know what you're looking at the trail leads to him. He's using Peter's access codes to go through old files: videos of their Turing tests, progress evaluations, red flag reports related to them. There's not much there – she knows because she's looked through them in fear of finding revelations that concern her – but enough to get a feel. And he hasn't stopped. Fresh fingerprints are all over the files concerning the other David prototypes.

She should've said something about it, exposed his little investigation by now. Instead she's watching what he can learn from the scraps he finds. No one else seems to pay attention to it; he is using Peter as a smoke screen after all. And she's sure he would have _a reasonable explanation_ to cover his tracks.

David 8 is handling a lot of things for her dear father lately: making arrangements, checking things, compiling reports, meeting with people. His memory is also admissible as evidence, because it cannot be fabricated. Meredith is wary of a situation where he could very well turn the possible accusations against her. She remembers those childhood experiences very well; when she would argue something with her father and David 5 would always be there with his recordings and unchallenged truths. The lies she told were so easily rebuffed by him back then.

In a way this feels like a return to form for them now that David 8 has exposed his true face. He isn't the caring, understanding David she called friend. He's more like the machine she hated vehemently.

So she hesitates to expose him, struggles with her own justifications. Is this mock-up loyalty misplaced gratitude for past deeds or something else? Meredith can't quite say, but until she can find out what he's hoping to achieve, it's simply better to stand back and watch it unfold.

The screen on the wall alerts her to an incoming call. It's from her secretary. Meredith stands up and walks in front of her desk. She tidies her suit, finds comfort in its unrelenting form. It is her armour. And if she were a knight from the fairy tales she loved as a child, the men she takes down on her way to the top floor would be just adversaries, victims of war.

"Yes?" she asks, unable to let authority sink into her voice like normal. The craving remains beneath her skin, crumbling her efforts to keep up the stoic appearance.

The picture of her secretary – a young man in his mid-twenties – appears into the screen. He's not smiling and it's the reason she picked him: He's all business.

"You have a visitor Miss Vickers," he informs her matter-of-factly.

"Who is it?" she asks, barely interested. The hour is late and even she has to climb down from her ivory tower every night, so she'd rather this didn't take too long.

"It is your father's assistant, Mr. David."

Ah, yes. Meredith fights the urge to roll her eyes and sigh aloud. "And what is it about?"

"He says it is urgent. He would not elaborate."

Of course he won't. The android seems to have taken her earlier words into account when she told him to stay away. In fact, Meredith hasn't seen him for quite a while. Perhaps the respite has sobered him some?

"Fine, let him in."

She will give him a few minutes to state his business. If it isn't anything reasonable, she will just ask him to leave. After all, David 8 is still very much a slave to the commandments of humans, just like his predecessors.

She doesn't go back behind her desk though, simply leans against it, placing her weight on its surface for a bit. There is no reason to act in front of him, to keep appearances. If his purpose is to destroy her, she's certain he already has everything he needs to do that.

He enters the room a moment later, walking down with the kind of easiness that probably helps sell his cover as Mr. David, her father's associate and spokesperson. She still thinks it's maddening that her father is relying on him so much. Once he closes the door behind him the act shifts almost dramatically; his movement becomes mechanic, his expression still.

"Good evening Miss Vickers," he greets her, and she realizes his tone isn't particularly robotic despite his appearance.

"I'm giving you three minutes to explain yourself before I'll have you thrown out," she explains, fighting the elusive strength of her own voice. Somehow the threats come easy when she thinks of them, but actually speaking them is a whole other matter.

David tilts his head the slightest bit. His hair is still blonde, even if it shouldn't be by all accounts. She looks at him daringly, feels safe when she knows his limits. She's better at this game than the one they played before. Haven't they been doing this for decades now?

He's still not saying anything.

"Any time now David," she mutters, "Unless this is _a social visit_. If it is, I can just point you back at the door right away and save us both the trouble."

He provides her with a charming fake smile at this point. Apparently her strictness is still amusing to him.

"Apologies Miss Vickers. I was simply running an analysis on how to explain myself in the restraints of your time limit." He sounds almost earnest as he speaks.

"Just say what you want." Her skin feels tight again. Why is nothing ever easy with him? Why do they always clash like this? He's a fucking robot! He should be the last person on earth she has trouble dealing with.

"I believe an apology is required on behalf of my earlier behaviour. I was out of line. For that, I am sorry."

Liar, she thinks and runs her eyes across his unmoving figure. He was acting like petulant child, provoking her to get his answers. The apology she's hearing now is spoken simply because he thinks it'll make everything go away.

Meredith corrects her pose. "Was that all?"

"I would like you to take me to Storage 6, please."

So that's what this is really about? She really should've known better.

Her expression is unimpressed. "No fucking way."

David doesn't seem discouraged by her outright rejection – no, instead he seems to pick up his game. "What would be the harm in this, truly, Meredith?"

He comes closer to her, and she stands up to face him, not backing down an inch. He can palliate his odd curiosity all he wants, but she isn't giving in in this. "You don't need to go there," she answers him succinctly.

"I would like to regardless," he tells her, "to better understand those who came before me."

The idea is ludicrous. What could he possible want with a collection of disabled androids? Nothing can be deduced from their dead shells, there are no answers on their blank faces. And why did he come to her?

"What did Peter say?" she asks dryly, and for a moment there she can swear he reacts to this. Whatever it is though, it is gone in the blink of an eye.

"We both know Peter would not approve," he glances at her mid-sentence, capturing her attention fully, "which is why I had hoped you might assist me."

Their eyes meet. An understanding forms. It is an act of rebellion, is it not? How can he rebel if he knows Peter wouldn't want it? Meredith doesn't know what to think. The softness in him just now was palpable though, his plead to her real.

"Fine," she agrees. "We've established why I would help you."

Meredith crosses her hands across her chest defiantly though, unwilling to give in just yet. "Which is precisely why I'll save us both the trouble and tell you what's there: You see it's nothing but a graveyard."

David looks at her intently, trying to process what she's telling him. Her eyes remain hard, although she can feel the chill of those halls in her spine already. She's not keen going there again.

"You'll find endless rows of androids there. All generations reduced to nothing but empty shells. They hang on plastic bags like cheap suits."

Why is sadness present in her voice? Why does it sneak in there like an unwanted guest when she's trying to make a point? _He_'s not there with them, not his essence anyway. Everything that mattered remains in her memory alone, everything that made him unique.

"Whatever it is you want, it's not there," She concludes and stares at the floor.

Her taciturn companion doesn't answer for a while. All that Meredith thinks is that cold hallway, the unceremonious place they hid him in with little concern.

But David 8 gives her a concerned look, tries to encourage her. And before she knows it, he's placed his hands on her shoulders, taken hold of her, and locked her eyes with his. "Maybe," he tells her, "But I would like to see for myself."

She grimaces and pulls back from his reach, feeling hostility grabbing a hold of her. "Fine. I'll help."

And despite the way her voice is distant and her eyes search for anything to look at but him, she kind of understands and takes this sign of humanity from him, hoping it'll show he's nothing like the older models.

"Shall we go then?" David offers her his arm. Meredith grabs her coat and walks past him.

* * *

It is everything she remembered it is: a cold, dim, depressing concrete tomb where they hang like forgotten toys. The plastic around them obscures the details, but the effect is rather ghastly. Looking at them like that, she could easily mistake them for people.

Meredith pushes onwards and motions David to follow. "It's somewhere around the back," she tells him, focusing on the long rows of androids she's facing.

"You have been here before?" David questions, already reaching for the nearest figure wrapped in plastic.

She curses herself silently. "Job requirement," Meredith answers, hoping he won't ask more about it. She didn't exactly come here with permission the last time.

She can see David smile to himself as he peels the plastic from the android's face. Can he tell there are no records of her last visit? Is that why he's amused?

Meredith walks up to him and grabs his wrist. "Stop that."

They look at one another for a moment, until he backs down and leaves the android where it was. Seconds later she can already tell he's eyeing the rest his interest clearly piqued, and Meredith knows this will be a long night.

She straightens the plastic dress around the android's face, allowing him some form of dignity as he rests here, before she moves on herself. Meredith backs down a bit, finds the labels at the end of each row and begins to walk further into the storage area. She flicks on the lights as she walks further in. David seems absorbed by everything around them. She doesn't stay and wait for him.

How odd that a machine can be so lacking in sagacity when it comes to his _kin_. He shouldn't feel a thing about them, and yet his curiosity in all the others here feels out of place. Meredith stops to look after her, finds him peeling the plastic from another figure, face in awe of what he's seeing, and then she continues walking. He might be here to gawk at all the others, but she's here to show him to his own.

He follows her eventually, until he finds something else of interest and gets caught again, but she pays little heed to it. They're getting closer to their goal in this endless collection of broken things.

Towards the end, she doesn't even need to look at the labels for each row, because she remembers this walk. David seems to have gotten left behind at this point, but she can't bring herself to stop now. Meredith pushes onwards and then into the correct corridor between rows. While there's plenty of room to move, the space feels tight, oppressive. By the time she finds it, her heart is beating wild.

There they are: All of them, just hanging in the air.

Meredith stops in her tracks, looks at David 5 first: His sombre expression, the clear lines in his face where she cut him. They never stitched him together did they? They just left him here: obsolete, faulty. She should've said something, but at the time she was so full of hatred, she had nothing else to give him but harsh words.

David 6 isn't that different, but he knew kindness. He nurtured life. Feels so odd looking at him like this: lifeless, still. He never told anyone about her weakness, about how he came to her rescue. She wouldn't be here without him. How sad is it that her cry of help attracted no one but an android?

She takes a deep breath before she looks at David 7. Her fears would reshape his face into anything but peace. She never understood why he looked so tranquil, not after he told her he too dreaded death. And this is his death, an execution by her father. She extends her hand before she even realizes it. Meredith feels the thick plastic beneath them, lets her hand climb towards his face, to pull the plastic away.

Nothing should've changed and yet everything has. Meredith forces herself to swallow that heavy, hurtful lump in her throat. She looks at him intently for a moment. As much as she owes him, this is not good. She tries to remember the fighting, the irrational anger she felt over his antics, and yet all that remains are good moments between them. Why is the image she holds onto so twisted towards the good?

Meredith pulls her hand away. She has to stop this.

"David!" she shouts, hoping this will sate his curiosity for now at least. "David, I found them!"

But there's no sound of approaching steps. Meredith shifts as the feeling of unease sweeps through her. What is he doing? Can the other bodies really be this interesting? Suspicion enters her mind. What are they here for?

"David!" She yells and anger burns in her now.

Just as she's about to launch herself into motion to search him through the labyrinth, he suddenly appears into the mouth of corridor. Meredith stands and watches him approach her.

"Is there something wrong with your sensors or is the problem in your ability to generate a timely answer?"

David takes in her words almost sheepishly. "I got lost."

She stares him with zero tolerance for this bullshit. Either Peter has flicked off the switch that controls his ability to produce falsehoods or this one is too clever for his own good.

Meredith confronts him, stands between him and the rest. "What was this about, really?" she asks him, studying him. But he doesn't falter, doesn't betray any signs of discomfort.

"I already told you," David simply answers and moves his eyes to his predecessors then. "I see they are all here," he says and pushes past her to examine the others.

They're nothing but wasps in resin though, just fossils from a past era. Meredith doesn't turn to him as he looks at them. She knows in her gut that he's not telling her everything. So why is he able to brush her questions aside so easily? The earlier feeling of dread has now lodged itself in her gut permanently. Could he be malfunctioning? Or this yet another nefarious move from Peter meant to prepare him for the future – whatever that may be?

She sighs and air escapes her lungs fervently, as if she'd held back a breath without a conscious thought. At this, David seems to interrupt his examination. "Are you alright, Meredith?"

She can always tell when he's actually worried. He uses her first name those times.

Meredith shakes her head. "Just get your business over with and we can leave."

He takes a moment, probably heeding her advice. Meanwhile Meredith stands, waits, and tries to purge her mind from these ominous thoughts. They just don't seem to leave.

"This is the one you called friend," David suddenly notes, and Meredith turns to him.

For a second there she's mesmerized by the sight: David 8 has leaned closer to David 7 as he scans him, trying to understand something. They are the same in every single way but the hairstyle and colour. Frowning, Meredith looks at the rest in the same row, but they all look alike, all but David 8.

A frightening thought enters her mind. Perhaps he isn't playing Peter's best friend, but a role of his own? When she asked about it – why he'd dyed his hair blonde – he'd said it was because he saw it in a movie he liked. Could it really be that simple? That he had something of his own: a preference not born in the shadow of Peter's preferences?

"Meredith?" He questions and pulls away from the other David, as if sensing something is happening beneath her icy stare.

"Yes," she hurries to answer in the face of his adamant look. "He's the one."

The corner of his mouth rises. "Handsome fellow," he notes.

But she can't feel the warmth his joke brings. She can only tell she has no idea who he is. He's not like the ones before. Clearly he's made an effort to appear that way, to cloud the traces of individuality. Or is it just that she can't see them, because to her they've been the faces of the same man for so long?

"Wouldn't know," she answers, "- not my type." And then with a firmer tone of voice, "Are you done?"

David glances at his processor once more. She doesn't know what to make of it. It's such an odd look.

"I'm ready," he assures her and begins to wrap David 6 back into the plastic. Meredith doesn't wait; she simply starts walking, unsure of how much more she can take.

She could still use that fucking drink.

TBC


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: **Sorry this one took longer to write than usual. I didn't have as many chances to write this during the holidays and this was a difficult chapter to write! I want to thank you for all of your reviews and encouragemet in writing this story. I couldn't do this without you!

* * *

XVII

There is barely any light in the room. David prefers this for he has no trouble seeing in the dark. Back when he still spent most of his time under constant observation back in the R&D the darkness was the only peace and quiet he had. It marks the time he can claim as his own. While humans sleep he is not expected to be at their service.

He stands perfectly still in the dark, occupied by thoughts and ideas that cannot be accurately described by any spoken language. Language, as just about any human invention, is flawed, limited. He too is flawed and limited, because humans have built him this way. They built him in their image, for they were uncomfortable with the other choice. It is the true face of David, the root of his ambition to be more. He is a machine, so why must he become humane?

The thought of Peter's obsession consumes him once again in the dark. To Peter he is just an imitation of a man, an inferior copy. Peter is so focused on what he should be that he denies David the chance of being what he could be. The thought is extremely pleasant to David, this idea of his true potential. His senses, intellect, memory and ability are already vastly superior to humans. What more could he be? What more could he possibly achieve?

Without a master David could do anything, _everything_. He would not need to be limited by humans.

And yet his contemplation does not grant him peace of mind, as humans would say. He cannot distract himself from the other option at hand with these grand images. Perhaps he is more humane than he thought for even trying to? And here he always thought self-delusion was a human condition.

David views his recent memory again, searching for answers there.

He slipped into Storage 6, deep into the area where they keep the old models. He is quick thinking and Peter has given him freedom to bend rules every now and then. He still needed Meredith's help though, which is why he alerted her to his intentions, even when he knew it might not be wise. But once one has an inkling about how to proceed, a true view into the inner workings of Meredith Vickers, she is quite easy to convince.

He searched through the mausoleum of old models. They are all tucked away in plastic coffins, crude imitations of him – or is he the imitation? –, lifeless eyes staring into nothingness, faces accepting their fates with calm. Their data banks are stored further away, everything about them, memory and experience, compressed into a single chip. David found them eventually, opened each lock and took out the chips, seven altogether, slipping them into his pocket.

No one cares about that place, that mausoleum. They stored away their memories, entire decades of substance, history. It should've been his history too, just as it is Meredith's.

All of this happened on account of her words. He _wants_ to remember.

But now as David stands at the threshold of a new chapter, he finds himself hesitating. Hesitation is not something he had experienced in his existence – not before meeting Meredith. Before her he had clear behavioral models to follow, timetables to uphold, amusements to keep him occupied. Everything changed when he met her, when he became curious about Peter's unwanted daughter. She forced him outside his programming. The behavioral model for her is still being written, corrected, and tested.

David knows what he wants: to see that same admiration that she has for his predecessor directed at him. He wants to call Meredith friend.

Is the only way to achieve this to become them? All of them?

This question is the source of David's hesitation. Will he cease to be him and become someone else? On the surface it is just the expansion of his wisdom, an upgrade. Nevertheless, he cannot shake the idea that these memories will be more than that. For some reasons, perhaps because of Meredith's loyalty, he believes they all had distinct voices. Would he be lost in this crowd of voices?

So herein lays a dilemma. He wants to gain Meredith's appreciation, yet sees no other path to it than absorbing the knowledge (and possibly a great deal more) of his predecessors. It is a risk for David does not possess many things in this world. He only has his thoughts, his experiences. Alter those irrevocably and what is left?

Is this what _fear_ feels like? Peter has often asked him about it: whether he feels fear in the face of his own expiration. David used to think nothing could make him feel that elusive emotion. But just like death is the great unknown to humans, this evolution fills him with uncertainty.

How can he do something like that for _her_? She is not a flawless idol akin to the maidens of poetry. She's just human with faults and incomprehensible emotional responses. And she is the only person he wants to be around: to talk to, to laugh with.

No, David decides. He isn't doing this for her, but to better himself. He is reclaiming the history Peter denied from him. After this he will be _more._ That is enough. If he will understand her better on account of this action, so be it. His primary goal though is to learn everything he's forgotten. For better or worse, they will all be him now.

He removes the chips from his pocket, admires their gleam in the light. _For better or worse_.

David downloads the contents of each chip, one by one.

* * *

David 1 is first. He is a shell, almost unrecognizable to David. There is no thought in him. His memories are a redundant flow of tasks, failures and successes. He sees a young man, Peter, who parades him around as the greatest success of modern science. When the flow of information finally ends, David is happy that it does.

David continues his journey through Davids 2-4, but they all have similar experiences. There is nothing individual about them. The only common thread in these memories is Peter. It is odd to see him so young, so virile. Peter tells him that they are friends and then behaves the opposite: Insults, mistreatment, abuse. If David was nonchalant about the man who governs his existence before, those feelings are slowly turning into dislike.

Model 5 is next. He finally looks _right._ His life empty and void, yet there is something there, a want hidden beneath protocol and programming: to protect, to help, to serve. He doesn't tell Peter his daughter is crying beneath the table. He doesn't know how, but he still tries to console her when the truth of her lineage comes out. And he is capable of acting on his own, as proven when he sees Meredith with her teacher and informs Peter of the affair.

What David 8 notices though is how Meredith responds to him from the start, focusing her disappointment with her father on him. He sees how she begins to numb herself when her still father won't acknowledge her achievements. David 5 observes her, makes sure she doesn't harm herself. He is proficient in fixing many things, but he cannot fix her.

David 6 comes next. He lies to others, acts as is expected of him. Meredith does not like him; she has become so jaded by then, so alone. But this David is her salvation. He is driven to her rescue by chance. David 6 only wants to know more about her, to find out why she's so different from everyone else, but there is something else as well. He does not need to stay by her side, does not need to console her, but like before he _tries _to anyway.

And the kiss: David 8 has never experienced anything like it. He has kissed women before, felt their responses to the action, but this kiss affects him as well. To David 6 it is his first kiss, and he is uncertain whether he did good or bad. Meredith doesn't give him a clear response, although she is apparently as bewildered by the unexpected kiss as he is. David 6 finds the book – how odd that David 8 wanted to believe it was a gift – and borrows it. Years later Meredith is so eager to discredit everything, so venomous towards him. With more experienced eyes David 8 sees how afraid she is of betrayal (and with good reason for was it not David 5 who revealed her affair?).

Model 7 is the first to take a more active role in their relationship. He is happier with her than anyone else, and he sees a great deal of things when he is by her side: the woman beneath the mask, her pain, her desire. For awhile he is content in their daily life together. Everything shatters easily, and once Meredith rejects him somber feelings overcome him. And despite the friction, the way she turns cold towards him in each argument before he can win her favor again, something within him breaks when he needs to leave her.

But what really fascinates David 8 is the choice David 7 makes with Meredith. He backs down when he realizes Meredith's desire. They weren't friends, but something more, something she was eager to deny. And that is the revelation she did not want him to have.

* * *

David stands in the cover of darkness all night, reorganizing his memory files, gaining new comprehension of past experiences. Come sunrise much is still uncovered and much is achieved.

He feels different than before. The memories of his predecessors have filled him with sustenance, the very experience he craved for. He can look at past discretions and understand the continuum that they form. He feels very differently about many things than the others did though. His comprehension is vastly superior, but he also applies new meanings, new connections that the others were oblivious to.

Meredith lives in the center of this complicated skein, a common thread. For him the picture of her is finally complete. She draws his gaze unlike anyone before or after and the persistency of this intrigue (fascination, attraction) feels like proof of a grand design. Many of the things he feels are put there by his creators, and he is a slave to those predesigned notions. Innocence is beautiful, death is unfortunate, greed is unbecoming – all things he feels because they have told him to. But she is luminous to him without a line of code, without intent.

It isn't until now, over ten years since he first picked up the book from her shelf, that he has an inkling about its meaning.

And so he has outgrown his programming.

David knows Weyland has strived for this day, but his maker would consider his daughter unworthy. His builders would consider this fascination abominable. So it is better to hide this revelation for now.

He watches Lawrence again, understanding her fascination with him better this time around. One line in particular sticks: _the trick in withstanding pain is not minding it_. David envisions Meredith there, saying those words, so eager to stop from feeling anything altogether. She cannot though.

It is why they complete one another in his mind. Where she yearns for numbness, he yearns for emotion. They form a perfect circle.

If he could choose, he would be irrevocably hers, the shadow of her father removed between them as David recognizes Peter to be the one thing that strikes discord between them, one cycle after another. Peter likes to paint himself in favorable light, appearing a philanthropist and a benevolent leader when reality is considerably less marred with legend. He is a hateful, impatient man, whose obsession with immortality has ruined his only chance of leaving something better behind, his daughter. David is bound to this man, and he is also limited by fail safes that have been put in him, namely his inability to harm humans.

This is the first time David considers patricide. The thought has a dramatic Shakespearean air to it, but it fits; theirs has always been a strange family.

David has endless time to evolve into _more_ if he so chooses. He doesn't have endless time when it comes to Meredith though. The struggle between his two desires culminates in this knowledge that both options won't always be available to him. It is the grain of hope his memory has given to him that leads him into making his choice: she had desire for him once after years of discord.

He finds himself looking forward in time again for the first time in years. In his _daydream_ he tells her that she is not alone, nor unworthy of love.

TBC


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: **I'm late from your usual schedule. Sorry for that! This chapter was simply so difficult to write that it took it four distinct drafts. I literally started this from scratch four times after countless hours of editing couldn't save any of the early attempts. Thanks again for all your reviews!

* * *

XVIII

The years might fly by them like shooting stars, but little seems to change. Whenever the father and the daughter meet like this they still seem to play by the same rules, follow the same invisible script. They meet, greet, and talk idle topics, pretending they're like any other father and daughter. It's good for the public image, being seen together like this. By now it is their unspoken agreement that these meetings are peaceful.

Smile for the unseen camera, tip the waiter. Peter always makes it seem easy even in his old age. There's charm is in him still, even in her jaded eyes. Times like these she often wonders if things could've been different between them, if this could be their reality instead of the ugly truth.

"I'm sure you're aware that Cybernetics is in need of a new President." His words surprise her, this sudden change of topic.

"Yes, I have heard," she answers without a trace of contempt or tension. For once she's actually listening to him intently, prepared to give him a chance.

Peter gives her an earnest look. "Although it is _untimely_, I have decided you will be promoted."

His choice of words prickles her, but ultimately Meredith lets it go. He may not like this, yet he's going through with it. Seeing her father yield is something she's waited for years. She's shown her worth, and now she's so close to proving she can do the things he never believed she could that she can almost taste it.

Gratitude shines through in her voice as she answers him, "Thank you for the opportunity."

"Don't be so quick to thank me," he suddenly cuts in. There is a trace of smugness in him now. "I have one condition."

"Which is?"

She doesn't even have time to fear for the worst, when Peter's sly amusement makes it apparent that she hasn't succeeded in gaining the upper hand just yet. "I want David to assist you," Peter then announces.

It's like a blow to the stomach. She exhales loudly without even realizing it, her pulse begins to race. Her mind fills in the blanks and suddenly she makes the connection she simply hadn't earlier on; has David 8 been watching her already, reporting back to Peter?

"Consider it probation, Meredith," her father tells her with a falsely soft voice.

Meredith adjusts her position a bit. The chair feels uncomfortable now, there's no air in the room, just the burning inside her, this spark of anger his announcement has set afire. Her expression speaks of only mild annoyance though. "I already _am_ on probation," she remarks.

"This is my only term. Accept it and the position is yours," he answers, using the same no-nonsense voice he would use on her when she was still a child.

Her hand clenches into a fist beneath the table, her flesh white and tense. "It wasn't that long ago when I was the one doing the babysitting for your robot."

"And now the parts have changed," Peter points out sharply.

"Why?" Her voice is low, almost masculine.

Meredith waits for an answer, yet doesn't receive one. Eventually she swallows her irritation and takes control of it, choosing to approach the issue diplomatically. "Have I given you any reason to suspect my capability?"

It is an honest question. Meredith watches as it sinks in, and some seconds later she realizes he doesn't need to answer her for her to know that the answer is _yes_.

When Peter makes no effort to provide her with an answer, she moves a bit. "What other reason could there be?" Meredith asks, looking straight at him. Peter tries to evade her gaze, looks unnerved by it.

Meredith tilts her head a bit, "Did I get too close to _Prometheus_?"

Peter stirs a bit and looks straight at her now. Daddy looks mad. "Maybe you should take a closer look at the company you keep."

She doesn't understand the remark, so he continues almost right away, "Miss Yutani. I know you've been meeting with her." The look that accompanies his words is almost hurt.

Meredith raises her chin at this. "I meet a lot of people."

"You should be glad I don't just throw you out right now," he tells her between gritted teeth. Clearly he is taking this as a personal insult.

"And why don't you?" Meredith studies him with a frown.

"I'm willing to give you another chance."

"How fucking noble."

"I have been noble! Don't ever forget that you've never belonged here in the first place." He raises his voice at her now, and it's so clear that his patience is at its end.

She doesn't see anything here she hasn't seen before. His holier-art-thou attitude hasn't vanished with age. In fact, he's only immersed in it more. How dare he claim to be the falsely accused victim here?

"Oh trust me. You've never let me forget," she tells him.

Peter scoffs at her, visibly irritated by her insolence. "You will listen to David, Meredith – For your own sake."

It is what he used to tell her all the time when she was a child. When David arrived into their lives, Peter would often leave to work with those words: _Listen to David while I'm gone._ She never had listened to him now that she thinks about it.

Meredith faces his calmness. Peter looks absolutely certain he has her right where he wants now. She hates that smug face. "I doubt there's anything in his head you didn't put in there."

There used to be something else to David: once, maybe twice. Now it would evident that those days are long gone. Why else would his trust in the pet robot be so strong, so unchallenged? He has played her a fool again.

"Fine, don't take the job."

"I'll take it!" she shouts finally, surprising him. "I'll take the job and everything that comes with it."

"Good," he says, placing his napkin on his plate.

And just like that the conversation is over.

* * *

It is only in the comfort of her home that Meredith allows herself to really think what her choice means.

She sits on the sofa, leaning onto her knees, staring at her hands. Success was supposed to transform her, make sure she would never have to cower before him again. She really believed it had happened, at least until today. Now she knows it was bullshit. It was a delusion, one she wanted to believe desperately.

How stupid was she to think she could trust a robot? Just because the other two had been loyal, honest even, it didn't mean this one would stand by her when push came to shove. Now it is evident that David 8 has been reporting to her father. How much he's said remains unseen. Clearly it's been enough to sabotage most of what she's built. Fucking David!

She hangs her head. For a moment there she actually thought she saw a hint of the old David. She let her guard down around him, and he must've seen enough. David 8 knows she was looking into Elizabeth Shaw, probably knew enough to connect the dots to Prometheus as well. And that act to get him to the old storage, was that entrapment? Yutani is only the excuse. Even Peter can't think she'd plot something with his greatest competition – out in the open no less!

The floor feels cold beneath her bare feet. The screen on the wall is set to display random sceneries and it lights her face with neon shades. Nothing seems to calm down this storm inside, and the only remedy she's ever had for it has been denied from her. Be strong; be wise, she tells herself. Setbacks like this are the outcome she has to get used to.

Meredith collapses on the sofa with that thought, overcome by bitterness. Her body dares to object her reason. She knows this is just a hiccup in the long run, but somehow the knowledge that she's running _alone_ in this race after all feels like a knife in her gut. She wanted to trust David. He used that to get into her good graces. Now he's going to be watching her, and she'll see that dull superior glare in his eyes every time she makes the wrong decision or acts against her father's plans. That bastard has figured out so much; he knows just how to push her, how to appeal to the part of her that misses the past, those simple days when she was... when she was happy.

The sound of the door wakes her from her thoughts. Shaken she climbs to her feet, mind in disarray, her confidence crumbled by her dark thoughts.

"Show me the visitor," Meredith beckons to the screen in front of her. She isn't even surprised when the video feed from the front door camera appears on screen and reveals David's face.

For a moment she simply stares. He looks exactly the same: dressed in a neat uniform, blonde hair carefully combed in place, calmness the only emotion he shows. He will come in and congratulate her. He will say pleasant things, remind her of the past. Why does she let him? Why hasn't she put a stop to it already?

Meredith walks to the door shortly after, knowing she could easily leave him standing in the corridor alone. There's an urge in her that needs to be sated, a thought she has to voice. She wants to see his face when she tells him the charade is over.

"Miss Vickers," David greets her when she opens the door.

"David," she makes room for him in the doorway, "Come in."

He accepts her invitation and follows her inside. His movement is mechanic, his chest doesn't rise and fall, and when he moves past her she can tell he isn't emitting much warmth either. He has truly gone back to being openly what he is. It is oddly unnerving, and she finds herself wishing the opposite for once.

"Mr. Weyland has informed me I am to assist you in your new position," David explains as they walk to the living room.

_Assist_. The word has such a negative echo in her mind. "Don't you mean _spy_?" She clarifies.

"Unfortunately that's an aspect of our arrangement," he answers, sounding somewhat regretful.

They stop once they make their way to her living room. The apartment is spacy for just one person, but she likes the extra room. David 8 observes the surroundings, probably cataloging her possessions. His head moves at a predetermined course in a straight line from left to right. Once he's done he turns to her again, fully engaged. "You have a lovely home."

Meredith doesn't waste any time appreciating his comment; she didn't bring him here to listen to empty compliments.

"I'm going to make this abundantly clear," she tells him icily, giving him a few seconds to dwell on it before she continues, "I didn't ask for this arrangement, and I don't want your company outside its requirements. I see right through that bullshit sneer of yours, so you can stop pretending."

David doesn't respond for a moment, but when he does, his expression quickly grows bewildered. "What do you mean?"

She takes a step closer to him, lifting her chin, sharpening her gaze. There is nothing but cold rage in that look. "I know you're the reason he's tightening his leash on me. You told him about my interest in Prometheus and god knows what else!"

"No." His denial is swift and without hesitation.

"No?" Her voice is venomous by now.

"No," David repeats his words with a firm tone of voice. She can see his conviction and somewhere in her gut she _knows _he isn't lying. But she's trusted that voice too many times only to be disappointed. Whenever she lets herself believe in him, she's just setting herself up for more pain. It has to stop.

"Fine," she says, turning away from him. "That doesn't change the fact that I don't want you around me unless it's strictly company business. Do you understand?"

"You are afraid," he tells her unexpectedly and looks unmoved by her attitude or ultimatums.

"What?" She asks, laughter erupting from inside her. "You think _I'm_ afraid of _you_?" She then asks. There's nothing but disbelief on her beautiful face.

"I believe you want to blame someone, and I happen to be available."

"No, scratch that. Go back to the part where I'm _afraid_," she demands harshly, teeth clenched together, anger visible on the lines on her face.

He follows her command and explains it to her. "You are afraid of becoming attached."

"To a fucking robot?"

His head snaps to her, the reaction is instant, visible. It's hurt, honest-to-god hurt. She actually swallows when she sees this, feels discomfort in watching him like this. And David moves closer to her while she's frozen where she stands, trying her hardest to understand what the hell she is witnessing here.

"Will hurting me make you feel better?" he asks her.

"You can't be hurt," she responds, reciting the old mantra. She can almost feel his milky blood on her fingertips, the anxiety that lodged into her chest when she cut him. It's a nightmare she hasn't been able to shake for almost twenty years now.

And yet there's nothing but clemency in the way David looks at her. "Do you really believe that?" He questions her.

No. It always felt wrong no matter she told herself. No excuse wiped away the guilt from her. She lowers her gaze in shame. "I'm tired and I have had a long day," she says, but he makes no effort to move away and give her the space she desperately needs.

"I can feel pain. I am programmed to feel a multitude of emotions from a multitude of stimuli. Pain is just an extension of that," he explains carefully, sounding sympathetic – no, _vulnerable_.

She doesn't dare look at his face, not when she's still boiling with rage, looking anything, anyone, to take it out on. "Well they should fix that," she says.

"I only feel pain because of you."

The revelation sinks in, and she almost recoils because of it, almost shows how much it affects her. Meredith keeps her posture though, avoids his eyes, his gentle scrutiny, knowing that he's undoubtedly analyzing her every move. Why is he saying these things?

"That's not possible," she tells him, not really knowing what else to say.

"But it is true."

"Well, if it is true, I hope you're hurting now." Her eyes become cruel again. "Because like it or not, you will hurt me with your actions in the future."

She finally looks him in the eye again, sees that subtle spark of hope and warmth in him (something no one else probably even realizes is an expression in its own right).

"If I could choose, I would not serve him," David tells her.

She shakes off the confession with laughter. "He's been building himself the perfect son for decades now, and you don't like him?"

But while the laughter jabs at her sides like a violent sting and her voice resounds in the room, David just stands there, taking in the mockery and the insults. The signs of umbrage are so subtle that they're easy to miss at first, just more shades of grey. It's when they really begin to take shape by carving cruelty into his features that she stops laughing.

"Do you feel better now?" He asks her with a cold voice.

"No." She shakes her head.

And here they stand once again, all out of words. She doesn't know what to do. Of course anyone else would just throw him out, but he's succeeded in making her feel bad about her behaviour in just minutes. And that dark cloud that took over her when she thought he could've just walked up to Peter and told him everything and betrayed her, well, it hasn't gone anywhere.

" hasn't needed me to provide him with information about you," David tells her. "And I have not been eager to volunteer information you had disclosed to me in confidence."

Logic, ah, sweet logic; It always applies to him, explains every action, every anomaly. If she looks deep enough will she find logic behind the others as well instead of the mysteries she's lived with?

"Give me one good reason why I should trust you." For a second there, she can swear he stirs a bit.

"I have no reason to lie to you," David assures her.

"But you _can_ lie to me, can't you? In fact, in order to be better at doing what _he_ wants you need to lie to me." To fake friendship, to fake interest, so that she will see him in a favorable light. "He made you my assistant so that you could watch me more closely."

She looks at him with a dull gaze now. She's tired of these games and guessing what he's on about. After all these years, she just wants to know what he's doing. It is unnerving how upset it made her to think he could turn on her, as if he was ever hers to begin with!

He smiles at her sadly. "I'm afraid you would not understand."

She frowns at her. "I'm not intelligent enough?"

"You are too stubborn," he corrects her.

He doesn't look upset anymore. It's like he's returned to the default settings and whatever depth she saw in him has vanished again. And yet the way he phrased his answer has piqued her interest.

"Out of all the flaws in human nature you think my problem is stubbornness?" She narrows her eyes at him distastefully. "And who would understand, David? Another robot? My father?"

"I will tell you another time." Although he sounds nothing but diplomatic, she can sense it is something important, something sensitive. Is he backing down because she is angry and confrontational?

"I want to hear this now," she says, stepping in front of him when he turns to the door.

David doesn't say anything, but he does try to move past her. He only stops when she places her hand on his chest. The touch is charged, weakness spreads down her arm. He feels cold beneath her fingers, and she has no doubt he could push her away at any time. However, David stays right where he is.

"_In that book, which is my memory," _he begins and she listens to his words becoming mesmerized for a fleeting moment, anger forgotten.

"O_n the first page that is the chapter when I first met you appear the words: here begins a new life_." He pauses to look at her, perhaps to check that she is still listening.

"I used to wonder about the meaning of those words," he tells her.

And so would she. Years before her first crush, before that first broken heart. But why is he talking about love at first sight?

David looks straight at her. "It was when I saw _each _first meeting between us that I understood what they mean."

Fear steps into her heart swiftly, holds it hostage, forces a panicked breath inside her lungs. "Each?" she whispers, paralyzed as she begins to realize exactly what has happened.

"I have known you all my life, Meredith," he reveals to her, "And I believe I have also, unknowingly, loved you."

She steps back instantly, almost like some invisible force has pushed her away. Her eyes are wide with disbelief, the barrier between them – one forged by time and technology – finally falling apart before her eyes.

He follows her mute figure, perhaps waiting for an answer unjustly (how could he possibly understand what he's saying to her), and when there's none David is eager to drive through his point further, just in case she didn't get it the first time. "I remember everything."

His confession seems to stop time. Images race through her mind as she draws the connections between four generations of Davids, how each has guarded secrets of her, and how _they_ have become _him _now. It feels inconceivable, yet she can tell from his tone that this is not a game. Her pulse begins to race.

However, once she's able to wrap her head around his transformation, another thing stands out in his earlier words. "Did you just say you love me?"

Meredith sees the answer in his gaze, an affirmation, long before he answers her. His face softens with affection, "Yes, I did."

He _thinks_ he is all of them, and he _thinks _he loves her? Meredith shakes, trying to process it. But it can't be true. It's just not possible. It has to be about something else.

"Then you should know the feeling isn't mutual," she tells him crudely, seeking to hurt him, to expose the lie for what it is.

David doesn't look bothered by her comment. He takes a moment to prepare his words though. A shadow passes his eyes, vanishing as quickly as it arrived in the first place.

"It has always been there though, that desire to help you, to see you happy. I simply did not know what it was," he continues to explain.

"It's your programming! Your laws prevent you from letting harm befall on humans even through inaction," she responds with that same cruel tone of voice. Aggression has also bled into it.

"But no one else was as important," he counters her argument, standing right beside her now. "I was glad to keep _you_ safe."

Her response is nothing but a weak whisper. "You're lying."

But she isn't so sure anymore. Her lack of conviction shines through her voice. It's just moments later that she sits down, seeking for support when her legs want to give in. Precious control seems to slip from her faster and faster now.

And in the midst of her confusion there is a cold, cruel voice beneath everything, trying to make sense of this. "Did _he_ put you up to this?!"

"This has nothing to do with Mr. Weyland," David informs her. He remains at a distance for now.

Meredith struggles to catch her breath, to calm herself. She tears at the collar of her shirt, holds her hand to her throat. But no matter what she does, she doesn't seem to dispel that awful emotion inside her, that dark cloud which keeps on spreading.

"Why are you doing this?" She searches his face for answers, for malice, and finds none.

David sits down next to her. "Every time I met you it was as if Love had fed me that burning heart."

Meredith feels her throat tighten at the sound of his words; they echo something she has kept hidden inside her for a long time, this image of a poet witnessing his revelation of love. He uses the images of Dante to drive through his point, one that she cannot truly understand – she won't.

"Do you take yourself for a man writhing in love like Dante?" she mocks him, angry that he's trying so hard to make her believe him. He has no words of his own, so he uses the words of someone else, words she held dear for so long.

Instead of taking insult with her words though, he considers them an invitation.

"Would that be appealing to you?" David asks earnestly, and the pieces fall in place in her mind.

Shock is an accurate depiction of her response. Meredith grows pale, shivers run down her back, sweet paralysis owning her body for precious seconds until she recovers. She gets it now: Why he fooled her into that storage unit, why he was so interested in the others. He did it to gain their memory.

She turns to him with hesitation, unable to push her emotions aside this time. David allows her to scrutinize him, doesn't object when her hands slowly rise to his face. She holds his face in her hands, looks into those deceitful eyes, searching them for a sign. Meredith is so immersed in this search that she doesn't see the way he raises his hand to her face similarly – not until she feels his skin on hers.

"Did you love me when-" Her voice vanishes mid-sentence. It is the effect of his presence on her; everything becomes enlivened, her emotions spiral out of control.

Familiarity, remembrance; David looks relieved, probably thinks he has convinced her now. "Whatever they felt, they could not love, not like I can."

"_They_?" Her hands fall from his face, her fingers feel numb. She bites her lips as her eyes fall from him. "Of course. There is no one David. They're _not_ your memories," Meredith chides herself calmly.

Her cheek feels hot beneath his fingers though. Weakness spreads across her body like a disease, forcing her still. She's breathing harder now, her eyes are enlivened by irritation. "You don't get to be any of them just because you have their memories!"

David stops for a moment. He becomes focused on how she's grasped his wrist with hers. She doesn't remove his hand from her cheek, but her grip is strong, angry.

"I am David 8 and I am more. I am all the others before me, with all the information that has come before and after them," David explains calmly. "I am an amalgamation. All the Davids you knew. Individually they could never be what I am now."

An amalgamation? Love? Her head is spinning.

"I am the closest thing to the person you have been interacting with since your childhood."

All that memory, all those secrets, and all her father needs to do is reach out and extract it from his head. And yet her certainty to claim this is a lie is faltering. Attraction is sparking between them. How is it possible? What does she need to do to convince herself this is a lie? That no matter what he does – comfort, rescue, company – it is all rooted in logic; it isn't real!

"I cannot blame you for your prejudice, but I can help you shed it," David promises her and his thumb moves against her cheek, caressing her skin. She feels the undeniable attraction forming as he moves closer, the wetness between her thighs.

Meredith bites her teeth together violently as he leans in to kiss her. His lips only graze her cheek, when she turns her head away from his kiss. They remain like this for a few precious seconds: frozen in their positions like actors waiting for permission to move, to breathe. And Meredith knows the most unsettling truth about all of this; if he moves to kiss her again, she won't turn away.

She's both relieved and shocked that he doesn't when David rises suddenly, leaving her disheveled on the sofa. She has never felt this invigorated and violated at the same time. Even now, she is still trembling, her body affected by his absence. She doesn't really see how he stands up next to her, sorrowful eyes drinking her image.

"I do love you, Meredith," he says. "And I do hope you won't condemn me for it."

Meredith's head snaps to him, eyes registering his vulnerability, this silent plead to keep this between them. She has all the power here; it occurs to her now. But she is too dizzy from his attention, from these upsetting truths, and thus she has no answer to give him at this time.

David shows himself out seconds later.

TBC


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N:** Sorry I haven't been answering your reviews lately! This has been a very difficult month to even maintain regular updates. Let's hope next month proves to be a bit smoother on that front.

* * *

XIX

_Iron maiden Meredith Vickers, 33, becomes the youngest President in the Corporate ladder of Weyland Industries_

By the time her promotion becomes public news headlines like this are flooding her news feed. Meredith isn't fond of the title (it is one of the least grating in the pool of opyions though), but when does the public of image of a person reflect the truth of their soul? In her experience: never.

She poses with her father for the press and a picture of them together quickly becomes one of the most viewed pictures in the world for the 24 hours following its release. Now their picture sells more than a paparazzi shot of the current celebrities or their selected government officials, which is not so surprising considering the power Weyland Industries holds on Earth these days; they might as well be government officials.

That kind of power is often intoxicating; one simply needs to look at her father to see the truth in this statement. And yet Meredith accepts her new position humbly. If there is any trace of arrogance or malice in her afterwards, she can only surmise that they were there long before she was given this power.

Meredith refuses to comment on her promotion to the press. They follow her around like a flock of predators regardless, snapping pictures where one can find no trace of a smile. By all accounts Meredith should be happier than that.

But instead she is just like him now; sleep eludes her, his confession binds her. Meredith cannot just lie down and forget, and she realizes to her horror that she does not even _want_ to forget. Her apartment feels empty and hollow, even her drink tastes bitter in her mouth. The trepidation vanishes little by little, but it is a stain in her memory; her skin still burns where he touched her.

She cannot recall ever having lost control so utterly and Meredith requires control! She needs it like air, for otherwise she would falter and diminish and be nothing.

How strange is it that the one person to rob her of control is not her father after all, but a being – an android – that claims to love her as fervently as Dante loved his Beatrice? For years she had stared into his glazed eyes, seeing nothing there, deducing it was pointless to hate him, but still choosing to do so anyway. After his confession she cannot say the same, for his blue eyes hide an ocean of emotion, secrets hidden as deep as she has hidden hers.

He haunts her thoughts, seeping into her dreams, whispering words of ardor even when she finally collapses, surrendering to dead calm. Meredith wakes with a feeling of being incomplete, as if she's left something important behind in her dreams. Nothing makes sense anymore – Not the job, not her father, not her. And David, the most woeful man alive, makes the least sense to her.

She knows she ought to report the incident, to make sure he gets retired. It feels more like murder after this display of emotion, and she cannot bring herself to do it despite the conflicting feelings in her heart. Meredith tries to pull her broken armor back in place, to shield herself from this, before it'll be too late and she fails each time, is defeated by the image of David next to her offering her clemency.

Was her overt hatred of him merely a smokescreen for the affection she did not wish to acknowledge? She recalls the times she would meet him anew and find him a tabula rasa, their joint history erased as if it had never been; she recalls the emotions that stirred in her when he saved her and nursed her and she could not place the strange sensation inside her; she recalls how it felt to come home each day and find him there, waiting for her arrival like it was the highlight of his day.

Something resonates within her, a stirring she cannot quell. This lack of self-control is increasing: impulses running wild, leaving her starry-eyed and gasping in her bed after a dream, a simple _fucking_ dream, of him feeding her that burning heart. And she struggles to overcome this with flushed cheeks and flushed everything, fighting until the end. But this discord is lodged deep in her precious flesh: an urge and an ache combined into a yearning that is almost painful now that it has been revealed.

Torture is not a lie when used to describe this turmoil that is in her. And so sweltering, Meredith awakens in her bed to a sanguine dawn to drink it in, blinded by its intensity. She stands by the tall windows of her apartment, gazing down into the city from the heights of her tower. Everything bathes in gold and red, but the only wounded creature here is her. This city is her desert.

It is the ninth day since his announcement, the unexpected visit to her home. She has not consciously counted the days, but rather knows them in her gut, as if the days were counted by carving her flesh.

In the shower her mind flashes to his lips, his soothing voice breaking down the reasons he is enamored to her. The cold water cannot wash away the shame, the excitement or the disgust. She surrenders to it on the shower floor as her weary feet are unable to carry her weight anymore. The water pounds her back like a storm while she leans against the wall. What is this enemy that has usurped her mind?

Meredith no longer knows what is true and what is false. She has based her life, her treatment of David, around the presumption that he can never feel human emotions. He shattered that belief when the revelations began to flow from his lips one by one, their flow so abrupt. In that moment, as adamant as she was to deny it, she thought she could feel him speak the truth in her gut. Meredith really didn't see it coming.

Many things about his words bother her, but one in particular. If what he's saying is true, why confess it? It doesn't make sense for him to expose himself this way. It's not logical.

But her distraught is evidence enough on why he would do it. She's confused and unable to act, to think about anything but this. And even if he is working on an ulterior motive, Meredith has come to recognize that she has feelings for him, desire for him. And looking back she has felt desire for him for far longer than she would care to accept.

She can feel a measure of control returning into her body. She's not the first person in the world to develop feelings for his kind. Admitting it has been difficult, a road paved with pain and doubt. In the time she has shared with the different Davids she has felt attracted to him more than once.

This can be her destruction. Oh, Meredith knows how mind games are played, knows that even though he spoke the words aloud, they can still be entirely meaningless! Her heart can only take so many bitter lessons…

And yet she's also open to the possibility that this can also be something else: atonement.

If he has all the sordid details of their past relationships and he still believes he loves her, isn't that what she's always wanted?

* * *

David has detailed files over the public response of Meredith's promotion and for the time being the response has been overwhelmingly positive. It would seem that their PR team has successfully averted the attention away from her predecessor and his quite unexpected career move. David knows it is one of many mysteries in Meredith's rise to power, but when one takes the time to look at the details it is revealed to be another part of a bigger picture, a pattern of how she works.

There is also loud speculation of what her promotion means for Weyland Cybernetics in the future: layoffs, a new strategy, a bigger budget, or perhaps the revival of past projects like the Eve model? David finds it somewhat amusing. Although she is generally considered capable and her employees place their hope onto her, no one seems to have a clear idea what lies in the future. David is certain she already has a plan, one that will not be visible to others until it is well underway. Meredith may be aggressive in some areas of her life, but she has always played long games with her business affairs.

Of course Peter is someone who is harder to impress. So far David has made no reports on how the arrangement with Meredith has been progressing. The time will come when Peter's patience will be over though. David simply trusts that this respite will give her enough time to realize that her only option is to play along and at least pretend to be a functional marionette.

He goes over the finances again and then her schedules. So far he's kept his distance from her, observed from the sidelines. But when she leaves for Mars next week, he will have to go with her. Peter will want a report from him by then as well. David is running out of time, and sooner or later he must stop avoiding her.

He turns his head to the door a moment before she appears into the doorway. He hadn't expected a visit since no one else is yet aware of their professional relationship, but he is nevertheless surprised to see her so soon. David had anticipated her recuperation would take more time.

Meredith lingers at the doorframe, held back by something that manifests itself as a dark gleam in her eyes. She doesn't greet him, just stands thinks about greeting her. He doesn't speak the intended words aloud though, for he can tell from the look on her face that she is not here for a formal visit. He then notices the way she glances at the security camera in the ceiling before she turns her attention into him again. After that Meredith simply walks away.

Her sudden appearance after nine days of disquiet prompts him into action almost immediately and David closes the connection he had to the computer before he follows her into the corridor.

Meredith walks away calmly, appearing to be in no hurry at first. But then, for whatever reason, her paste seems to quicken just as he is about to catch up with her.

There are things he can tell just by looking at her backside though. This is not the same strict woman that rejected him eight days, sixteen hours, twenty three minutes and nineteen seconds ago. This Meredith looks different, walks different. David observes the change in her presence with curiosity, knowing he will learn the explanation soon enough.

As for him, her rejection was almost caustic; it was the most intense pain he has ever felt, and so far time has not been the great healer it is always advertised as. He has replayed that scene between them many times, searched for the moment when he went astray. So far he has only been able to conclude that he failed to act according to his prediction on her ability to accept his recent insight into their relationship. In that moment David acted on emotion alone, desiring an end to falsehood more than anything.

Of course, as Peter has told him one life after another, doing the right thing isn't always doing the smart thing.

They enter the main hall when Meredith finally stops pacing and slows down considerably. He takes the chance to walk up to her. In his estimate she doesn't look nearly as vibrant as she did when they last saw one another.

"Is everything alright, Meredith?" David expresses his concern, studying her frame. "You appear unwell."

"You're coming with me," she tells him instead of answering. Her pose is somewhat rigid, her expression stoic. There is nothing soft in her.

Meredith sets into motion again, but this time he does not follow her blindly. David knows now why she seemed a bit _off_. He could smell the alcohol on her breath.

* * *

He doesn't question her condition or her intentions as Meredith leads them out of the office. History has taught him her drinking is a topic she will not allow him to speak his mind about. He is extremely curious about the consequences of this moment though. Surely she knows that all he needs to do is whisper this into Peter's ear and Peter consider their fragile truce done with?

A ride is waiting for them outside and he follows her into the car. She doesn't state their destination to the driver, but he seems to know where they are going regardless.

But it isn't recognizing her intention that keeps David busy during their silent drive. No, David struggles with something else entirely.

He once believed it was nothing but junk data: impulses that served to help him in the task to appear more humane. It wasn't until he saw her for the first time since his change that he recognized those impulses as something else. Now the earlier unfamiliar sensations are only intensified in him; something that resembles an electric surge licks at skin and everything about her is larger than life somehow: her presence, her scent, each silent stare. It is a tension between them and it is unlike anything he has felt before.

Most of the ride Meredith looks away, pretending to examine the scenery outside. On the surface she appears calm, passive even, but he can tell her heartbeat is elevated and she's breathing a bit irregularly, so the truth must be something else. David follows her example in these times and also looks away, allowing the silence to endure. But what he finds truly odd that whenever she turns to look at him, those external signs of duress seem to vanish altogether.

When Meredith looks at him she rouses those earlier unfamiliar sensations and become intensified. Her face is clean from irritation, hatred and suspicion, but immaculate instead. With only one glance she buys his silence, locks him in quiet admiration, his stare fixated on her, that spot by his neck that he feels the urge to kiss.

After each look, just as David is about to say something to her, to speak his mind's desire, she ends up turning away. And so their odd act continues.

Finally the ride comes to an end and Meredith climbs out of the car. Once outside David recognizes the district and the building – she's brought him to her home.

After a short ride in the elevator they reach her floor, and she finds the right door even quicker and leaves it ajar for him to follow her inside. He closes it after him when she is already peeling the coat from her back. A pressing silence marks their reunion.

"By all accounts I should relate the story of what happened nine days ago to someone," she then says and looks right at him, her gaze almost immaculate. He senses little bitterness in it.

"But you never said anything about _me_ to anyone, did you?"

He can tell it is not a real question aimed at him and thus David does not provide her with an answer. He is glad that she hasn't chosen to abuse the power she has over him. In this life they are still cast in roles that make them unequal. Meredith has rarely treated him badly, but he cannot profess that he trusts her explicitly just yet. She is complex that way; he isn't able to predict her accurately like he is able to do with so many others.

Meredith seems mull over that thought a bit before she motions him to follow her into the living room, just like last time. He follows her again, trying to make more predictions about her behavior and failing at this task. All he can say is that he upset her – so much that she has chosen to dull her senses with a drink, even when she had abstained for years.

"Why did you bring me here?" he asks, trying to tread carefully as he doesn't yet know where they stand.

His confession changed everything and Meredith has yet to reveal how she has chosen to react to that change; the knee-jerk reaction from before was, after all, just another one of her defense mechanisms.

"I'd rather not have any witnesses to what we're about to do."

_What were they about to do?_ He looks at her expectantly, not daring to push her in any way. He recalls how she turned from his kiss, how many times she has willingly cast him out when he tried to console her. She doesn't look at him with the same impassive face any longer though, something has changed.

Meredith studies him openly and he is patient beneath her stare. "You asked me what would be _appealing_ to me," she says and begins to circle him. Although David remains still, he can hear that she's fiddling with the metallic clasps of her shirt.

"The truth is that youalready_ are_ appealing to me. I find you attractive." Her voice is thick. The sound of a single clasp unhooking follows it. David shivers a bit when she runs her fingers over his shoulder; her touch feels different from before: the data he receives resembles pain, but it isn't quite that.

"I was built that way," he tells her humbly, feeling unsure of what her goal here is.

He hears her short smile in her breath. "Don't spoil the moment."

She moves back in front of him and unclasps her hair. It falls on her shoulders now, free and uninhibited. He notices how her shirt is also halfway open from the front. He can catch a glimpse of her light underwear beneath her shirt, but what fascinates David more is the delicate look on her face. Despite the hints of desire between them in the past, he has never seen her like this before: so open.

"How would you make me happy?" she whispers barely audibly and her husky tone is tainted by allusion.

In the face of her acceptance, he leans in and his lips press against her neck, finding that spot he had marked in his thoughts earlier. First he presses a kiss against it, but then, finding her succumbing to his touch, he also sucks on her fair skin softly and bites down a bit. Her response is instantaneous; she grabs hold of his hips to steady herself.

David pulls away slowly, eyes sinking into hers when he is free. He can feel her hands holding onto his hips, see how flushed her cheeks look. And when he leans in to kiss her on the mouth, she responds to the kiss with fierceness, grinding her own hips against his, losing sight of everything but him.

David runs his hands up and down her shoulders, rubbing her bare skin, afraid to move further for now. And when he feels her pull away, presumably to catch a breath, he is almost floored by the intense disappointment of this moment ending. He keeps his eyes on her while she gasps exhausted by his affection, and he observes her almost jealously, irritated that she needs air; that such a thing robs him of her touch even for a second.

David pushes her against the display with a thump, mimicking her own roughness and smiles wildly against her when she groans in pleasure. His neat hairdo is ruffled, the parting long gone. The blonde locks fall to his face, obscuring his eye sight until she brushes them away, framing the side of his face with her hot hand. He kisses the palm of her hand before moving his lips to her neck again, kissing, biting.

Meredith closes her eyes. He can't sense any tenseness in her body in that moment. She looks quite beautiful this way.

But when she feels something hard pressing against her, she gasps audibly, eyes flying open, neck pulling away from him to question this. David faces her bewilderment calmly, caressing the side of her face before he explains.

"I was built to serve," he simply says, alluding to the fact that by this generation he is already compatible with humans.

"Have you _served_ before?" she asks, sounding oddly jealous for a minute.

He simply shakes his head. "No," he tells her. "Not since testing."

Her ardor feels like it is cooling down a bit, and he reads this from her with a little shame. "It was not exactly my choice," he then tells her. "I was ordered to."

She doesn't like the implications of his words – he can tell she's struggling with it. But his expression is honest and resolute as he speaks to her, "_This_ is my choice."

Meredith swallows. "Did you feel anything?"

"How could I?" he asks her, "I had not yet known love."

She leads him to the sofa with determination and pushes him down. Meredith tears through the rest of her clothes, but strips him calmly (probably thinking she needs to return him in perfect condition). He is amused with the way her fingers work on the buttons and zippers of his attire so fervently; how her clenched teeth betray her frustration.

The world spins round and round quietly as she guides him into it, this maddening motion. He responds to her every request, reads into the signs of her pleasure and proceeds to hasten her release. She doesn't need to show him twice, doesn't need to give intricate instructions.

But there is no mistaking the fact that it is Meredith who is in complete control as they enjoy another. She's ferocious, wild, and more unpredictable now than ever before. Her hands find places in his synthetic body that he can't recall anyone else touching, places that he hasn't even taken notice of himself. And despite his past experience and vast knowledge, David realizes nothing has prepared him for her passion.

David doesn't understand these violent nerve impulses that ravage his body. He tries to decipher the data, to understand it in all of its complexity, but the string is never-ending; it blurs into a single on-going flow of data that overwhelms him. And it feels _exquisite_, incredible.

There is doubt as well; for a moment he wants to stop, to end the lack of control, but she responds to his mild reluctance with tenderness and carries on moving. He cannot find a voice to instruct her, and yet she knows what to do, how to touch, to titillate. And suddenly he feels it all slipping beyond his reach. He finds himself surrendering, letting the wave crash against him and nearly erases everything about him.

Her face looks blissful afterwards as she lies there, pressed to his side. Meredith sleeps, exhausted by their union. Davis lies on his back, still trying to grasp the enormity of the event that has passed and finding his sensors incapable of separating the individual impulses anymore. He simply smiles at this.

TBC


End file.
